A small group of onlookers had gathered at the corner, older people from the neighborhood, grandparents, great-grandparents, a few children too young for school. The fire truck was blocking his view of the house. Darby’s first thought was the lights. The Kid had left the lights on in the house and one of them had caught fire, old wiring, a bad bulb, a bad fuse. He stopped the pickup on the other side of the street, ran across to the fire truck. The Kid. Had The Kid already left for school, or was he still inside when the fire started? The security bars, the security door. The Kid trapped inside while the house burned. Darby came around the fire truck, up onto the curb. The house looked just like it always looked. Nothing was burning, there wasn’t any smoke. He caught the toe of his boot on something lying on the sidewalk. The manhole cover, pried up, lying flat on the cement. He turned just in time to see a firefighter lower himself into the open manhole and disappear. Another firefighter stood over the hole holding a large beach blanket, her arms spread wide as if waiting for something to leap out, as if she was going to catch it in the blanket when it did.
