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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.<\/p>\n
By noon, the whispers had started again \u2014 same tone, same cold breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe probably left a cigarette burning.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI bet he had gas tanks in there. Crazy old fool.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you imagine the hoarding? They\u2019ll probably find rats the size of cats.\u201d<\/p>\n
And still, no one offered to help.<\/p>\n
I stood there, arms folded, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest spill out.<\/p>\n
I turned to one of the women near me, someone I\u2019d chatted with once at a block party.<\/p>\n
\u201cHas anyone checked on the dogs?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think the firemen have them, Marisol,\u201d she said, blinking in surprise. \u201cThey\u2019re out front in cages or something.\u201d<\/p>\n