Pyrogenic

Federico dawdles home. Outside their house, builder's paper flaps loose in the wind, lifts at one corner so he can see into the black hole. The fireman said he was very lucky not to die. Sylvia said he was lucky she paid the insurance or they'd be out on their bums. She wore her deep red variety of anger for him most days. Her voice fell round his shoes. He watched Bea, who said nothing.

He sits down on the front step and picks up a handful of stones from the driveway. Martin, the train-boy, is chugging his way home from school. He stops at the gate and waves at Federico. What are you doing? says the train.

Nothing, says Federico.

Martin turns his head clockwise, squints at sky. Once my electric blanket caught on fire and I had to sleep in our sun room.

So. Federico aims the little stones at the birdbath in the centre of the lawn.

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Birds don't eat stones, says Martin. Federico ignores him, keeps throwing the stones in the water.

Do you want to be my carriage?

No.

You could be the stoker.

You're not a train, Martin. You're mental and everyone knows it. Martin keeps his head down and kicks the gate lightly with his foot.

I am so. I'm the best train. He looks Federico in the eye and toots, then chugs off. Federico stays on the steps listening to him fade down the street. At the corner the train gives a long slow whistle, then is gone.