The Paris Review - Fall 2016

“Yes,” she said.
She looked in her side mirror and saw the field on fire. But it didn’t seem
like the flames were real. They were too orange, too pointy. The fire trucks
that came screeching down the road seemed ridiculous, taking the corner so
fast you had to assume they’d topple, the ambulance included. A cop got out
of his cruiser, big footed, bald headed, red faced, no doubt biding his time,
growing his beer belly until he had twenty years in and could retire.
“We pulled in to have a little kiss,” Jake said. “I don’t see the harm in
telling the truth.”
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