page 210

Liar

This is where we learn how to approach disparate conflagrations, a flaming television, say, versus a flaming pile of oil-soaked rags. They play the clip of the burning stadium as our punishment or our reward, 'Your time will come' or else a 'Thank you for your time', I can't be sure. 'Now see the people who believe they can escape up top,' they say, 'Now count the seconds till that roof falls in.' One. Two. A man runs out onto the field, his back and arms ablaze and chased by their own lit wake. Others push him down and wave their jackets over him. 'They're only drawing in more oxygen to feed the flames,' they say. They hit his body with their jackets. 'The right idea,' they say, 'but by now the heat has melted what's inside his arms and the blows are breaking the burnt skin that's holding him together.' An audible hiss of breath took in at our collective wince. 'Don't worry,' they say, 'a man like that's in shock. He doesn't even know that he's on fire.'