I’m sitting in the backseat of Jimmy’s car, looking out the window. Bury isn’t much. Like a lot of small towns, it’s just got the one town-ish street with all the commercial properties, and everything a block past that in any direction is residential. Peaked, and sometimes turreted three-story Victorian homes in various stages of repair intersperse with storefronts, banks, and churches, all of them huddle up to Bury’s main drag as if by sticking close to its only high-traffic zone, they can stay relevant. Like mere motion equates to thriving, it’s the real estate version of old folks walking the mall.

  Still, I don’t see any empty stores. No cold metal shutters darken the street with commercial failure. There’s no graffiti or trash in the streets. An unblemished coat of paint freshens the gazebo in the town square park, and someone trims the bushes and trees. It’s all very Norman Rockwell. If he’s even a thing in this world.

  “I mean it. I’m deadly serious. You stay in therapy and hold your temper or you’re out. These people have been through a lot. Way too much. You scare them and you’re gone.” I resist the urge to snap my fingers.

  Grant’s quiet a long time. “Ben, I’m a fuck-up, yes. But I wasn’t until I lost my job. I wasn’t some roided out berserker. I never hurt anybody. Never been locked up. Trust me, I know how big a deal this is. I can cook again? I’m willing to give therapy a try. Jimmy’s been telling me I should. I could maybe even save my marriage.”

  Jimmy pats his friend’s shoulder. “Maybe, Grant.”

  Grant holds up a hand. “I know. I know. I put her through it. Terrorized her. She might be gone, and it’s totally my fault. I’m not going to go stalking her or anything. You know that.”

  Jimmy nods.

  “Like I said, I just know what a huge deal this is. For me and for you, Ben, for taking a chance on me. I had a little taste of what total failure is. Never again. You’ve got nothing to worry about with me. I’ll do fine if my head’s on right, and I can do that with some help, yeah.” The big man watches the scenery pass. I have the feeling he can’t look anywhere else, at either of us, without breaking down. “I want to try.”

  “If I didn’t think you could do it,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t have made the offer. I just need you to know the score.”

  Grant nods.

  I pat Jimmy on the shoulder. “What about you? I know you deliver pizza and can play a decent game of basketball. I can see you’re a good friend.”

  “Me? I’m not a chef or anything,” says Jimmy. “I’ve got a degree in computer science.” He hooks a slim thumb at Grant. “He cooks food. I cook code. Right now I’m doing freelance work, working from home. Dad’s old and mom’s sick, so I have to stick around.”

  Grant snorts. “He games. Hard to update your resume when you’re busy grinding and leveling up.”

  Jimmy shoots him a look, then he grins. The expression looks a little forced.

  I think for a second. “I bet the shelter could use an IT guy. Entertainment director?”

  That’s when the cars in front of us lob a series of Molotov cocktails through the storefront to our right.

  One after the other, from the back seat of both dark sedans, two big flaming bottles arc through the air. The first crashes through the display window, setting everything just behind it ablaze, and the second follows through the hole its predecessor made to coat the front of the store in flames.

  Jimmy swears and swerves, trying to stop. A tire hits the curb with a dull whump, hard enough I bet he’s dented the rim.

  “Oh fuck,” he says. “It’s a pet store!”

  We tumble out of the car.

  Grant’s got his phone to his ear, already giving the 911 dispatcher what details he knows.

  Jimmy’s staring at the flames.

  Bury’s Downtown Pet Shoppe is a raucous inferno now, with the screams, barks, and panicked cries of its inventory just audible over the rush of the fire. The front door is glass with a bell hanging down and a Closed sign with the business hours noted in black marker. A quaint green and white striped awning above is dripping fire.

  Jimmy yells that the door’s locked, so I fish my telescoping baton out of my jeans. The other day, I cut a hole through that tiny pocket above the main one where, I guess, people used to put pocket watches? The asp has a clip on it, so it looks like a fat pen in a bad disguise. I try not to go anywhere anymore without some kind of weapon. There are also a few marbles in my on me and a brace of throwing knives strapped to my calf. I never know what I’m going to need, so it’s best to have a little bit of anything I can use to slant things my way.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I extend the asp with a flick of my wrist and smash out the glass by the handle of the door. The bolt is hot, and it takes a couple of tries to get it open.

  I look back at Jimmy and Grant.

  They look at me and give me a nod.

  “And we’re going in right now.” Grant shakes his head at whatever the dispatcher says after that. “Yeah. Well…” He hangs up and stuffs the phone in his pocket.

  Jimmy watches the ceiling, already blackening from heat and soot. “Do you think anybody lives upstairs?”

  “I’ll check that out.” Grant moves to another door to the immediate left that probably goes up. That door’s locked too.

  Nothing’s on fire right here yet. That’s all to our right, but I can feel the heat cooking me, and we’re all coughing.

  “I can bust any doors down that need busting down.” Grant kicks open the door like it’s made of balsa wood and disappears into the stairwell beyond.

  Jimmy and I hurry into the store’s center, away from the flames . We lucked out that this isn’t the kind of place to have any proverbial doggies in the window. The shop’s front seems reserved for food, toys, and general pet stuff. There’s an open space here in the middle with aquariums of various sizes lining both walls, with the glass of the ones nearest the blaze blackening. Wall-to-wall cages come after the fish, and run past the a small counter and register. Beyond them, the wall comes out to enclose a storage area, and the restroom, but the cages continue down a short corridor to a fire exit.

  Jimmy’s eyes are wide and staring at the water in the tanks beginning to bubble and boil. He knows there’s nothing we can do for whatever’s inside.

  “Jimmy!”

  He looks at me.

  I point to the back door. “See what’s out there. I’m going to start opening cages!”

  The sprinkler system kicks on then. Tepid, stinking water and steam mixes with smoke. Lights are blinking, and bells are ringing, and I think I hear a man’s recorded voice saying something.

  This section of the wall is for cats. I stand well to the side as I free them. The last thing I need is a panicked kitty attached to my face as I do this. I get five or six open before the first tanks burst, and I’m forced to Push my luck harder just to keep my feet what with all the water and dying fish.

  Jimmy’s got the back door propped with a rock the size of my two fists. He hurries to the opposite wall and starts opening cages on the other wall.

  Grant appears at my elbow, slapping at his shoulder, which is a little bit on fire.

  I help him out, literally.

  “Nobody’s upstairs!”

  I nod.

  He runs off behind the store’s counter, looking for something. Not finding whatever it is, he kicks down the door to storage area and disappears inside.

  I have stacks of dogs in front of me that just want to get the fuck out.

  A few of them snap at me, but only if they think I’m remotely in their way as soon as they can leap out. They skitter and slide in the water, their legs going about five times the rate at which they’re actually moving. It’d be cute if the sprinklers were doing a better job.

  The top cages are a bastard. It’s too high for the dogs to jump down, and I have to reach in to get them. They bite and scratch as they use me for an off ramp. Nothing serious, but it slows me down.

  A roaring, hissing cloud erupts past me. Grant’s found a fire extinguisher.

  Something flutters at my face in a flash of bright colors. Ah. Jimmy’s got birds over there. I wonder how well a parrot’s going to do outside in Bury, Ohio, but better out there than in here.

  After the dogs, I find goddamn snakes on my side. At first, I want to say fuck that. Let them cook. I mean, why’s it got to be snakes? Still, they can’t be poisonous, right? Nobody sells poisonous pets, do they? It’s not that I’m afraid of them. Not really. But their fangs are almost longer than their heads! Fuzzy and cute, I understand. I don’t get reptile people, but I guess I don’t have to, do I? That’s not required here. I’m not going to let any of them burn. They’re in aquariums rather than cages, so I have to pull each down and run each outside.

  I hear a yelp and see Jimmy with a bunch of ferrets attached to him and his arms full of hamsters and gerbils making for the exit.

  Grant is pushing and toppling shelves into the fire, trying to create a firebreak.

  After the snakes come the lizards, and by the time I’ve got the last iguana out the door, I’m to the cages by the counter. Only, it’s one big enclosure. Inside are a bunch of tiny monkeys.

  Monkeys?

  Can you even have monkeys as pets in Ohio? I don’t think you could where I’m from, but here? I have no idea. The sign identifies them as long-eared marmosets. Never heard of them. The price tag lists them at three grand each.

  Their home is half as tall as I am, reaching from my waist to the ceiling. Inside is a small stand of tiny trees. The marmosets are leaping around in total panic like a furry pinball machine with too many balls going at once. There might be fifteen or twenty in there. I can’t even tell. What do these little guys eat? Meth?

  Their door is the first in the whole store I find with a padlock. I’m wondering what to do when the ground shakes and there’s a flash of heat and light from the front of the shop. Something up there exploded. Or maybe it came from upstairs? I don’t know. That’s all academic, anyway. My job is to save the monkeys.

  One of them clings to the trunk of a sapling and watches me, his expression solemn, eyes huge and sad.

  I consider trying to break the lock with the asp, either by hammering it or prying it open, but the bars are thin for keeping tiny primates inside, not big scared ones. I fit my fingers into the grid, hoping the little fuckers won’t bite me, and pull.

  At first, nothing happens beyond bending the wire, but I keep it up, and the mesh soon rips away from its welding and continues to tear in juddering succession, the metal rattling, vibrating with a thrum.

  Marmosets scream and squeeze themselves through as soon as I make an opening big enough. I keep pulling so they can all get out, and I feel the hot metal bite into my hands. I bellow and strain until the last one skitters over my head and is gone.

  I can’t catch my breath. Can’t stop coughing.

  Somebody grabs my shoulder and shoves me towards the back door.

  Right. We’ve done all we could. Time to go.

  It’s Grant helping me, keeping me upright as we stumble outside. Jimmy’s already there, hands on his knees, hacking and spitting black out of his lungs onto the gravel. A shaggy white and brown dog sits there on his haunches, tongue out, his eyes completely obscured by his hair. He chuffs once, then turns and bounds off.

  I see a lonely, scraggly patch of grass in between the parking area and the alleyway that runs behind the businesses line the street. I totter over, lay on my side, and try to keep my lungs on the inside of my body as they do their damnedest to heave themselves out, like they’ve been waiting all my life just for this chance to escape. That’s all I’m able to do until, an eon later, somebody fits a mask over my mouth to help me breathe.