Smoke stains ran down the siding like watermarks of grief. Bits of insulation drifted through the air like snow. By morning, even the local news vans had arrived, antennas twitching as they crawled across the block.

By noon, the whispers had started again — same tone, same cold breath.

“He probably left a cigarette burning.”

“I bet he had gas tanks in there. Crazy old fool.”

“Can you imagine the hoarding? They’ll probably find rats the size of cats.”

And still, no one offered to help.

I stood there, arms folded, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest spill out.

I turned to one of the women near me, someone I’d chatted with once at a block party.

“Has anyone checked on the dogs?” I asked.

“I think the firemen have them, Marisol,” she said, blinking in surprise. “They’re out front in cages or something.”