Chapter 9: Moonrise

I ran uphill.

Sophie was right behind me, yelling into her radio for the crew.

By the time we reached the cabins, the cook's porch was a sheet of flame.

The roof of the second cabin was smoking at the eaves.

Heat slapped my face.

The smell of fuel was everywhere, sweet and thick.

And there he was.

My brother, in his red jacket, walking along the row of cabins with the pack's drip torch.

Its wand dripped little burning drops into the grass as he went.

He'd come up the back way, through the timber, where nobody was watching.

"Lowell!"

He spun around.

His face was white and slick with sweat, and his eyes were enormous.

"Get out of here, Faye!"

"Put it down."

"It's going already. It's done." His voice cracked. "Damien said do it early, while you were all looking at the grove."

"There are people up here."

"They were supposed to be gone! You were supposed to make them go!"

The third cabin caught behind him with a soft whump.

The cook's window blew out, and glass rained onto the porch.

"Put it down," I said again. "Please. Lowell, please."

For one second I thought he would.

His shoulders dropped.

Then he looked past me, down the slope at our line, the long brown scar of dirt with the hoses laid along it.

He understood.

His mouth twisted.

"You always win," he said. "Every time."

He turned the torch toward the dry grass below the last cabin and tipped the wand.

The torch coughed.

There was a sound like a gas stove lighting, but a hundred times louder.

Fire shot backward up the wand and burst over the canister, over his hands, up his sleeves.

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