Makers

Suza

Perry, though, just squinted into the sun and nodded. “Have you ever tried burglar alarms?”

The kids laughed derisively and Suza

“I want one that fires spears,” the one with the juice-head father said.

“Blowtorches,” said the one whose mother pushed his father under a bus.

“I want a force-field,” the third one said, speaking for the first time. “I want something that will keep anyone from coming in, period, so I don’t have to sleep one eye up, ’cause I’ll be safe.”

The other two nodded, slowly.

“Damn straight,” Francis said.

That was the last time Francis’s acolytes joined them on the rooftop. Instead, when they finished work they went home, walking slowly and talking in low murmurs. With just the grownups on the roof, it was a lot more subdued.

“What’s that smoke?” Lester said, pointing at the black billowing column off to the west, in the sunset’s glare.

“House-fire,” Francis said. “Has to be. Or a big fucking car-wreck, maybe.”

Perry ran down the stairs and came back up with a pair of high-power binox. “Francis, that’s your place,” he said after a second’s fiddling. He handed the binox to Francis. “Just hit the button and they’ll self-stabilize.”

“That’s my place,” Francis said. “Oh, Christ.” He’d gone gray and seemed to have sobered up instantly. His lips were wet, his eyes bright.

They drove over at speed, Suza

They arrived to discover a fire-truck parked on the side of the freeway nearest the shantytown. The fire-fighters were standing soberly beside it, watching the fire rage across the canal.

They rushed for the footbridge and a firefighter blocked their way.

“Sorry, it’s not safe,” he said. He was Latino, good looking, like a movie star, bronze skin flickering with copper highlights from the fire.

“I live there,” Francis said. “That’s my home.”

The firefighter looked away. “It’s not safe,” he said.

“Why aren’t you fighting the fire?” Suza

Francis’s head snapped around. “You’re not fighting the fire! You’re going to let our houses burn!”

A couple more fire-fighters trickled over. Across the river, the fire had consumed half of the little settlement. Some of the residents were operating a slow and ponderous bucket-brigade from the canal, while others ran into the unburned buildings and emerged clutching armloads of belongings, bits of furniture, boxes of photos.

“Sir,” the movie-star said, “the owner of this property has asked us not to intervene. Since there’s no imminent risk to life and no risk of the burn spreading off his property, we can’t trespass to put out the fire. Our hands are tied.”

“The owner?” Francis spat. “This land is in title dispute. The court case has been underway for twenty years now. What owner?”

The movie-star shrugged. “That’s all I know, sir.”

Across the canal, the fire was spreading, and the bucket brigade was falling back. Suza

Francis seethed, looking from the firemen and their truck back to the fire. He looked like he was going to pop something, or start shouting, or charge into the flames.

Suza

“I’m Suza

He hopped to, quickly moving to an older man, tapping him on the shoulder, whispering in his ear. Suza

“Chief Brian Wa

Suza

The Chief looked at the fire for a moment. Across the canal, the bucket-brigaders were losing worse than ever. He frowned and Suza

Suza

A second later, Perry followed. Then Lester.

“Chief!” she said, going around the engine and pointing. The Chief had the phone clamped to his head still, but when he saw what was going on, he snapped it shut, dropped it in his pocket and started barking orders.

Now the fire-fighters moved, boiling across the bridge, uncoiling hoses, strapping on tanks and masks. They worked in easy, fluid concert, and it was only seconds before the water and foam hit the flames and the smoke changed to white steam.

The shantytown residents cheered. The fire slowly receded. Perry and Lester had Francis, holding him back from charging into the fray as the fire-fighters executed their clockwork dance.

The steam was hot enough to scald, and Suza

She saw the one whose father had reportedly been pushed under a bus by his mother, and he grimaced at her. “What we go

“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you all right? Is your family all right?”

“Don’t got nowhere to sleep, nowhere to go,” he said. “Don’t even have a change of clothes. My moms won’t stop crying.”

There were tears in his eyes. He was all of fifteen, she realized. He’d seemed much older on the roof. She gathered him into her arms and gave him a hug. He was stiff and awkward at first and then he kind of melted into her, weeping on her shoulder. She stroked his back and murmured reassuringly. Some of the other shantytowners looked at the spectacle, then looked away. Even a couple of his homeboys—whom she’d have bet would have laughed and pointed at this show of weakness—only looked and then passed on. One had tears streaking the smoke smudges on his face.