Ever since his wife Irma died, Martin’s been starting fires. They were small fires at first—tea candles and Sterno—flickers that fellow residents of Danworthy Independent Living noticed through Martin’s sheers. Now, he’s cruising the hallways with a butane lighter, lighting fires in metal trash bins. No one can prove it’s him, but Martin’s soot-stained thumbs give him away. Irma was the one who loved fires—their Yosemite honeymoon, gathering sticks and logs, the crackling blaze, clinging together until the embers grayed. Irma, the ideal girl he’d sketched inside his head. Irma at the end, so cold. So cold.