Come morning, the old cabin was a lumpy pile of ash layered on smoldering coals. A few broken, charred beams poked through the cinders. To Lawrence Keeney they looked like the gnarled hands of a doomed man, a man reaching for what he can’t have.
Keeney scoffed at his own morbid, poetic turn of mind. He turned away from the home in which he’d lived for almost thirty years, the home he’d built with his own two hands, the home he himself had burned deliberately in the night. Then, still… Continue