grief I thought I had seen in the night had burned away into anger. After exchanging some rough words with the remaining firefighters, Mr. Hallman brutally rushed Max and his mother into their car, dragging Max by his thin arm and pushing him into the back seat. As they drove away, Max turned back toward me, his eyes stony, glaring, accusing. Max didn’t come back to our school that year. I guess the Hallmans stayed in a hotel for a while and then moved somewhere else. Their house was destroyed, and they must have decided there was nothing worth coming back for — least of all the little girl who lived next door and was Max’s best friend. I confessed everything to my mother — the basement, the tent, the candles, even the part about how frightened I was of Mr. Hallman. My mother offered words of solace. “Anabelle, nobody knows exactly why the fire started. It might have been an electrical problem. I don’t think we should tell anyone else about it. It’ll just make more trouble for Max.” She was right, but it didn’t stop me from blaming myself. When you’re a child, you’re at the mercy of the elements and your elders. You have no control over whether you’ll be born into a cruel household like Max’s, or a kind one like mine; whether you’ll put down roots in one neighborhood, or move from town to town; whether you’ll make a friend for life, or lose a friend in less than a day — never a chance to say goodbye or ask forgiveness. I thought I saw Max in a grocery store over in Lincoln just a couple of years ago. He was taking items out of his cart and putting them on the black conveyor belt for the clerk. A yellow box of cereal, bananas, milk, cookies. “Max!” I called out to him. He looked up, and he turned toward me, but he looked right through me. “Max, wait! Don’t you remember me? It’s Anabelle.” I imagined a flicker of recognition, but he picked up his paper bag of groceries and strode past, leaving me staring through the glass doors into the parking lot. R Page 21
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