• Thomas likes the color blue.

    Blue. Water. Blue. Sky. Blue. Isn’t it the color of tears? Blue.

    He smiles to himself, pulling his scarf of the same shade over his nose. He loves his scarf because it can cover his freckles, hide his scars, keep him warm.

    It reminds him of the days they spent at Grandpa's house, with dusty silk curtains and sunshine seeping like honey through the first-floor windows. Everything in the house was sticky with it, he remembers. Even the basement was flooded with filtered sunshine.

    He, his mother and Leila had spent a month there, in the honey—the first month after the divorce, back in May 1990-something. It was mom’s decision, suggestion, et cetera; a way to deal with it, sort of. "You're taking a little break from school," she'd said softly as she forced clothing into a duffle bag. "I'll call your teachers. We just need a break."

    "I'm failing,” Thomas said.

    Mom glanced over at him. "I dropped out of high school."

    "That’s not my fault."

    "I'm just saying that I don't care."

    "...yeah."

    They left two days later. Thomas never went back to school.

    School wasn't really something that mattered to them. They were too excited; two days in a small vehicle, countryside, and Grandpa. They wanted to see the little trinkets and breathe that old people smell. Maybe mom would let them walk in the woods or Grandpa would unlock the basement. Thomas had found a notebook in there one year, a fancy ring-bound one with a peacock on the front. He filled it to the brim with drawings of boats that had wings.

    “Does Grandma still live with him?”

    “No. She has her own apartment.”

    Thomas frowned. That meant all her statuettes and loot would be gone.

    “Where?”

    “Town.”

    Mom turned onto a dirt road, driving past little shacks and gates and a sign that said CEMETARY AHEAD. Leila watched the sign through the window. Her head turned as they passed it, twisting slowly until her shoulders seemed to follow.

    The sign was on the house’s property, but the house was much more attention-grabbing than a hundred dead bodies. Sort of.

    It was painted blue, or it had been a long time ago. There was a dry patch of grass in the front yard, where a fountain had once been, and a huge raspberry patch right in the back yard (though you could see it from the front, regarded Thomas). The house looked more like an orphanage than a home; a place where tons of little kids ran around and picked raspberries and collected rocks from the driveway. Quartz. Pissing in the woods. Climbing stairs. What else was there? … maybe the lack of TV reception counted, which Thomas was most concerned about. There’s not much to do for fun when you live down the road from a cemetery and only have three channels.

    Perhaps they could graverob. Thomas laughs to himself as he pictures this and he delves deeper and deeper into the memory.

    “The house is buried on Indian graveyards, right?” Leila asked. Mom shook her head.

    “No. Of course not. Where did you even get that idea?”

    “It’s an Indian cemetery. You told me so,” answered Leila. Mom just laughed.

    “Don’t worry about it,” she said with a smile. “The graves are pretty far from here.”

    “But I wanna see ghosts.”

    “Why?” interjected Thomas, “They can’t do anything.”

    Mom changed the subject, turning down the A/C. She almost stopped in front of the mailbox out of habit, but laughed at herself and pulled into the driveway.

    “I missed it here.”

    She was a young mom; she still needed her parents and their bumpy driveway.

    Leila thought the tires would pop from all of the rocks. They were everywhere—a shallow hole next to the mailbox, lining the sidewalk, hiding snakes. It was a collection of little quartz stones with sharp edges.

    The grass, yellowed from extended use, crinkled like paper when they stepped out of the car. It felt nice to stretch their legs, despite the aching, and Thomas decided to spontaneously (as in, “race-you-and-it-starts-now”) run past his sister so he could get used to gravity once again. Leila ran after him. She yelled something about how it wasn’t fair.

    Everything smelt sweet, fresh; the air was crisp and clean, unlike the oxygen in their small--but industrial--town at home. It was like freshly cut grass mixed with sugar cane, and it was new to them. Leila seemed especially fond of the smell, stopping to take in breaths and taste the new environment.

    “It’s like the smell after rain!” she squealed, and Thomas knew that she didn’t really know what she was talking about. “Isn’t it?”

    He agreed anyway, trying not to laugh at the way his little sister related to the world: detached, unsure, inexperienced, but confident. That was how ten-year olds were supposed to live, and it was how he acted at that age, too. Juvenile. He smiled, gave her a laugh (she groaned at how quickly he’d given up the race), and turned to help his mother unload the car.

    There were moths in the trunk. He batted at them.

    Moths, thinks Thomas. They’re attracted to flames and old clothing. He wonders maybe if there are little balls of moth dust in his pockets, but doesn’t actually check. The flame, he thinks, glancing around at the too-dark room around him, might bring them out once he gets settled in. All he has to do is pour the gasoline, really, just to ensure the spread of the flames—frowning, he picks up the heavy canteen, untwists the cap, and shakes it so it spills all over the floor.

    There’s a bit left when he’s finished. He jiggles the container and listens to the soft sloshing. It’s a small favor, just a tiny comforting sound to help calm his trembling nerves. Need to get rid of the extra gasoline. It would be a shame if it went to waste, especially after all he did to get it in the first place.

    Thomas sighs and pours what’s left over his head.

    He drops the match and wonders if he’ll be buried in that cemetery.