11
T
he damage inside was minor, another broken pane of glass just above the one the hose had been slipped through—I couldn’t help but wonder if that was more than happenstance—and some charring on the floor. Somehow, the flame hadn’t caught the nearly-one-hundred-year-old wood on fire. Stephen thought the bomb maybe wasn’t made well, but I could see boot prints near the scorch marks and ash on Charlotte’s shoes.
When I got to be alone with her for a few minutes, I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and said, “You put the fire out.”
She didn’t turn to look at me. “I did.”
“How?
“I’m not sure. But I knew I couldn’t let these children be destroyed again.”
I swallowed hard so has not to cry and reached over to grab her hand and give it a quick squeeze. She smiled a tiny bit.
On
