There is something eternally fascinating about a fire. I don’t know what it is, although I suspect it is a memory from our distant ancestors when we huddled in caves with only flames keeping us safe from nighttime predators. My compulsion to stare into the fire certainly increased tenfold after I moved into the house off the West Bow. Evening after evening, I fought the shadows of my mind by crouching close to the heat and staring into the orange flames, as if I were a part of the phenomenon that Ruth had created from sticks, paper and coal.
Each night the fire drew me closer, so I could imagine myself standing atop the lumps of black coal as the flames licked around me, with the heat building and people gathered around to watch me gasp and writhe and scream at the unbearable pain. Each n
