There was a fire on Sixteenth Street, in the house where the bastard had lied through his teeth. And had left her to a basement full of ashtrays and cats, so she had an abortion or something simple like that. She smelled smoke as she walked from the liquor store, that had learned her name in three days or four. The house was just like wicker as the smoke got thick, with her boxes full of his things where the kittens hid. A quick count of heads showed no one to risk for; they turned the hoses on the roofs of the houses next door. Running up the street with a bag in her hands, she said, "I'm hardly accounted for...."
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