our windowsill

“Run me through the plan again.”

Crickets chirped softly as the two men huddled in the brush. Fireflies lingered in the muggy air, hanging on the humidity and slowly blinking through the heat. The third man that was with them stood tall, staring at the house a few hundred yards away. His weathered face was still and unreadable, his eyes cast in shadow under the brim of his hat.

“D’you see that house?” the second man whispered, pointing through the bushes at the small house. All of the lights were off and the rocking chair on the porch was very still; whoever lived inside was sound asleep, and had been for awhile.

“Yea, no shit I see the house. I know why we’re here, I just wanna iron out the details before we do this,” the first man hissed, knocking the second upside the head and sending his hat to the ground. Before the second man had a chance to swing back, the third man cleared his throat. The two stared at him, and sheepishly scooted away from each other. The second man brushed off his hat, which was already so worn and dirty that being on the ground for ten seconds hardly made a difference.

“You two are going to take these,” the third man said, holding up a cheap sleeve of matches between his gloved fingers, “and you’re gonna light this house up like a sinner in church without gettin’ yourselves killed.”

“That’s it? That’s a hell of a plan, I can’t wait to see how this plays out. Thanks a lot, boss,” the first man scowled, his pale face scrunched in hesitation. The second man opened his mouth to join the rebuttal, but immediately clamped it shut when the third man’s fist flew into the first’s nose.

"Listen close,” the third man whispered, his hand now gripping the first’s shirt collar as he pulled him in. His face remained still, almost as if it were carved from a dark, textured stone. His eye, however, caught a glint of something sinister, and the first man shrunk beneath his gaze. “If you’re too chickenshit to throw a lit match through an open window, I’ll just knock you flat and leave you on that porch to fry until dawn. How’s that for a plan, Wicker?”

Wicker gulped. He glanced at the second man, who kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Wicker muttered a quick apology, and shrugged the third man’s hand away. It was quiet for a few minutes.

“Alright,” the third man said, tossing the match sleeves to the other two men. They scrambled to their feet, dusted themselves off and stared at the house. Though they ignored it, both men felt a slight twinge in their gut; this moment held the last of any innocence they would possess.

“Well?” the third man hissed. “”Get to work.”

∙∙∙☾∙∙∙

The men sat in the back of Wicker’s pickup truck. The second man took a long swig from his beer, and heaved a deep sigh. The sun was beginning to rise, and he could hear the echoes of the fire truck sirens weaving through the woods toward the thick plume of smoke billowing into the sky. The men were already miles away, resting along the coast of Lake Granby. The second man stole a glance at the third, studying his face. While he didn’t personally give a shit, he was a little curious as to what his boss was thinking after going through with the plan. As always, his face was set and unmoving. His slate eyes were cold, and if he had any regret or misgivings, there’d be no real way to tell, and the second man wasn’t interested in pressing any further. In any case, the less he knew about the situation, the less of a suspect he became.

"Remember," the third man said, his voice thick with ale. "Wicker, slash your tires with a regular Swiss. Rook, drive home and get shit faced. Don't get out of bed. You don't know where I am and you don't give a shit. Got it?"

The men nodded. So far, this had been their easiest job yet. Wicker may have been a grouch about the details and the crosshairs, but Rook was glad he didn't know much. It kept things simple. He didn't know who was in the house, he didn't know why it needed to burn down, but he knew he was getting a sum of the insurance money, and he wasn't gonna ask for anything besides. The only thing that tugged in the back of his mind was the sound of an infant crying from within the house, but he buried it. Soon, after drowning himself in liquor, he wouldn't remember the ordeal at all.