Burned Away Read Free Page A

fingers.
    â€œSure,” he said. “Would’ve made a mean pop if I’d lit it.”
    She glanced again at his half-missing eyebrow, trying to gauge if he was serious. She was almost certain his entire brow had been there when she’d seen him two days ago.
    â€œAn explosion, you mean?” She stopped. “You were really going to blow something up.”
    He grimaced. “No?”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œMatchstick,” he said.
    She pulled off her hat, scratching her head in frustration. Maybe he was worse than the Brotherhood—he was carrying around explosive devices in his pockets. Feeling his stare, she turned to face him.
    â€œYour hair’s orange,” he said in awe.
    She shoved the hat back on her head. All the names the kids had called her in school came roaring back. Brush Fire. Copper Kettle. Big Red. It was bad enough she was taller than everyone, but she had a million freckles and hair that never let her blend in.
    â€œYeah, what of it?” she said.
    â€œIt’s orange ,” he said again. “Like fire.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “You some kind of pyro?”
    â€œKind of,” he said, so enthusiastically she couldn’t help but laugh. His mouth fell open, and he pulled his hat lower down on his ears. He started walking again, faster now, and when they crossed between buildings he didn’t reach out his hand to help her.
    â€œIs the press really over?” she asked, catching her breath.
    He sighed. “I dunno. Maybe. The meet with Hampton didn’t go so good.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    Her fingers itched to take out her notebook.
    He crossed his arms over his chest. “You really a reporter? I saw you before. In the crowd.”
    Something fluttered in her stomach.
    â€œYes,” she said. But then added, “Kind of. I’m working on it. I just need the right story.”
    â€œWhy?”
    The question threw her off guard. Because then the editor at the Journal will take me seriously. Then I can get an assignment that gets me away from Aunt Charlotte and the Tri-City.
    â€œI want to go to the front lines,” she said.
    â€œReport on the war?”
    She nodded. Not just any reporters were sent to the fighting on the Northern Fed’s border. You had to be good, proven , with lots of experience.
    â€œWhoa,” he said, and she beamed because he was clearly impressed. “I’m going there too. Once I save enough for the train, that is.”
    â€œIt seems like a good place for someone who likes to blow things up.”
    â€œThat’s what I was thinking,” he said. “So what are you writing about? The press?”
    She almost said yes and whipped out her journal to ask him the dozen questions bouncing through her brain, but then she remembered what the Brotherhood had said. She wanted out of here. She wanted to go to the front lines more than anything. But their threat had been clear, and if there was one thing she knew from growing up on McNulty’s turf, it was never to underestimate the reach of a gangster.
    â€œI was,” she said. “But I sort of like the whole being-alive thing. Not sure I want the Brotherhood to change that.”
    He made a humming sound. They’d come to another rooftop, this one filled with the soft cooing of pigeons. In the distance she could see city lights now, rising in lines from the apartment buildings, and knew they were coming close to the beltway.
    â€œThey told us not to press, too,” he said. “We don’t listen so good.”
    She squeezed the strap of her bag, torn between the journal within and the too-clear memory of metal rings lying over knuckles.
    â€œWhy did you, then?”
    â€œBecause…” He hesitated. Glanced her way. If she hadn’t seen him take on two guys from the Brotherhood just minutes ago, she would have thought he was nervous. “The charter … We’re like