The next bad thing happened three days later, after we’d settled into our boring routine of keeping the house from freezing and ourselves from starving. And not just us—Mom started preparing food for some of the old geezers who couldn’t remain in their homes without heat. Reggie Kingman had arranged for them to stay at Moulton House. There’s no longer any Moulton family in Harmony, but after croaking or retiring or whatever, their original house got turned into a museum. Or that’s the story they tell when you take the tour. Anyhow, the Moulton place, a rickety old colonial, had a fireplace in every room. Insulation wasn’t so good, but with the fires blazing it kept the chill off, and was close enough to the center of town so folks could lend a hand, bringing in water and food and so on.

Where Kingman got the wood to keep those fireplaces going I don’t know. Firewood had suddenly become more precious than food. A lot of the families had freezers full of venison, so no one was going hungry, but not many had enough wood to feel really safe if it meant getting through a long, hard winter. Everybody with an ax was out chopping down trees—me included—but the wood was green and frozen solid and hard to cut up with a handsaw. Probably used up more calories chopping and sawing than you got burning.

Burning. Fire. You see where this is going. What happens when fire trucks don’t work, and pumpers can’t pump, and the only way to fight a fire is with your bare hands and a bucket of snow.

*  *  *

First we heard of it was Gronk pounding on the door and bellowing, “Superette’s on fire!”

By the time we got there it was too late. Not that we could have done much. Nobody could. The fire consuming the Superette was so hot and bright it hurt to look. Inside the boiling inferno, rows of shelves twisted and curled as if alive, making screaming metal noises. The heat intensified, driving us back. Then a massive pair of flames whooshed up through the roof and joined like clasping hands. A moment later the building caved in on itself, roaring as if in pain.

Poor Mrs. Adler, the manager, wandered around in her orange parka, tears streaming down her chubby red face. Not saying much of anything, just staring at the flames and shaking her head. When I came up behind her to say I was sorry about the Superette, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Sorry, Mrs. Adler.”

“It’s only a building,” she said, her eyes searching the dark. “I got away, that’s what counts, right?”

“Sure, Mrs. Adler.”

She started to say something else, changed her mind, and then Kingman blew his famous whistle to get the crowd’s attention. “Listen up! See all those sparks? We have to suppress the sparks or the fire will spread. Boots and buckets, folks! Boots and buckets!”

And sure enough, burning sparks floated through the winter night like little parachutes on fire. They kept smoldering even after they settled on the frozen ground. Some we could stamp out, but others had to be smothered under a bucket of snow. Must have been fifty of us running around and stamping out the sparks. Everything seemed strangely dim because the night sky was overcast—no moon or stars—and the only light was from the smoldering wreckage of the Superette. We kept bumping into one another as we ran to stomp the sparks. Kind of funny, really, and Gronk and me got to giggling as we pretended to be Godzilla staggering around in the dark, stomp stomp.

Finally the sparks settled down, and we all stopped running around and warmed our hands at the glowing wreck of our only grocery store and pharmacy. Nobody said much, not even Reggie Kingman, who looked taller in the glow of the fire. When the fire was contained and things seemed pretty safe, he came around shaking mittens and thanking us.

“I think we can handle it from here,” he said. “You folks go on home and get some sleep. Things will improve tomorrow.”

It was a nice thing to say, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t really believe it. I was just a kid, but I understood that things would only improve when the power returned, and motors started, and cell phones worked. But in a weird, sick way it had almost been fun, fighting the fire together. Until your brain bumped up against the fact that this wasn’t a bonfire intended for our entertainment, it was the Superette, and now it was gone, maybe forever.

When Kingman got to Mrs. Adler he gave her a big hug, and then in the middle of the hug he seemed to freeze.

“What?” he said, stepping back and trying to see her expression in the faint glow of the smoldering ashes. “What did you say?”

Mrs. Adler looked stricken, no surprise, but she also looked frightened. Not scared of the fire so much as just afraid. “They were after me, I think. I was lucky to get away.”

“Who was after you?”

“Whoever set the fire. It was the smell that saved me. Kerosene. I came out of my office to check on that smell, and then the hallway burst into flame. It was smoky but I caught a glimpse of him running away, on the other side of the flames.”

“Who, Naomi?” Kingman asked. “Who did this?”

“He was running away, you know? All I could tell was that he was young. And he was wearing camouflage.”

By then most of those who had come out to help were gathered around, and as soon as they heard camouflage, someone in the crowd shouted, “Bragg! You saying Webster Bragg did this?”

“Not him,” Mrs. Adler said, shaking her head. “Younger.”

“One of his sons! Had to be! They didn’t get what they wanted so they burned down our only store, our only pharmacy! So what are we gonna do about it?”

The idea caught fire almost as quick as the Superette. Several things seemed to happen at the same time. Angry talk about marching out to Bragg’s compound, maybe setting it on fire to teach him a lesson. My mother grabbed the back of my jacket and yanked me away from the crowd. And Reggie Kingman gave a toot on his whistle.

“Whoa! Hold it right there! We need to calm down and think about this.”

“Think about what? We know it was him, and you know it, too.”

Kingman had both hands up like he was slowing traffic. “That may be, but we’re not going to do to him what he might have done to Mrs. Adler, based on suspicion. I’m calling a town meeting for tomorrow. We’ll meet in the light of day and we’ll decide together, as a town, not as a mob.”

There were some mumbled protests, but that pretty much did it. The crowd broke up and we headed home.

On the way Becca asked Mom why anyone would do such a terrible thing.

“I wish I knew, chipmunk.” She linked her arms through ours. “I wish I knew.”

I had a question, too. One I didn’t dare ask.

Who was next?