Chapter 12: Fire in the Shed

The boat shed was burning from the roof down.

Flames ran along the ridge in a bright line, and the tarpaper curled and dropped in black flakes.

Inside I could see the old hull my father had left on the cradle, orange light in every plank gap.

I ran.

I had a garden hose in my hands before I knew I'd grabbed it, and I opened the spigot at the cottage corner and aimed at the nearest wall.

The stream was pitiful.

It hissed against the boards and the fire went right on.

Headlights swung across the yard, and a truck skidded up behind me.

Ansel came out of the cab in a T-shirt and bare feet, with a canvas fire hose over his shoulder.

"Back," he said. "Away from the wall."

"It's my father's shed!"

"I know. Get the pump."

He pointed at the slip, where a gas-powered pump lay under a tarp I had never lifted.

I reached it in a few quick strides.

He had it running in two pulls, and the hose went stiff in his hands and jumped with the pressure.

"Water," he said. "Draw from the slip. Keep it on the north wall."

"Where are you going?"

"Up."

He went up the side of the shed on a ladder I hadn't noticed, a hose over his shoulder.

I held the pump line and watched him straddle the burning ridge and aim a solid stream into the heart of the roof.

Steam boiled up around him.

Sparks rained over his head and shoulders, and he didn't stop.

"Gen! The south corner!"

I dragged the garden hose around to the south wall and pointed it at the studs.

Somewhere behind me, car doors slammed.

Three of the lobstermen came down the hill with buckets, then six.

The bearded man came with a fire extinguisher and emptied it into the doorway.

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