Jonah looked around the cabin.
There was nothing here for him. Had there ever been? He’d sought escape but had escaped nothing. He’d sought a new life but had found only a long quiet death.
He opened the woodstove door. Embers pulsed in a bed of ash. He poked a kindling stick in the coals, got its tip glowing.
He lit a cigarette with it.
Coughed.
In the corner, he found the can of lantern fuel and unscrewed its cap and walked about the cabin tilting it, kerosene burbling onto the floor behind him.
He soaked the couch with the fuel.
Sucked on the cigarette.
He walked to the door, fuel gurgling behind him. From out on the porch he threw the can into the cabin. He looked up at the sky through the swaying treetops. Vultures rode the draft to circle over the beeches down below.
He took one long last deep drag on the cigarette.
It tasted of death.
He stepped off the porch and flicked the cigarette back into the cabin, as far as he could.
The fuel lit with a hollow whoooop.
Exploded.
He was knocked back by the rush of flames, felt their hot breath scorch his face, the acrid smoke in his nostrils as he retreated to the hemlocks.
Let the whole cabin burn.
Let it burn to the ground.