George stopped a foot short of the canvas and lifted it. He had lately been investigating the cost of a modern Latta steam pumper for the town, hence knew something of fires and their effects. That didn't prepare him for the sight of the dead lovers.

Of the two, the wife was charred worse, her blackened skin split and rolled back upon itself in many places. The cousin's burned-away clothing revealed hundreds of blisters weeping a shiny yellow fluid that mirrored light. The faces, necks, protruding tongues of both victims had swollen in the final agonies of wanting air and drawing only scorching fumes into the lungs. Ultimately, the throats had swollen, too, though in the wife's case it was hard to tell whether flames or asphyxiation had killed her. With the cousin there was less doubt; his eyes bulged, big as new apples.

George let the canvas fall and managed to suppress vomit as it reached his throat. What he had seen conjured strange specters. Not merely fire. Death. Suffering. Loss. And, in overpowering summation, war.

Shuddering, he walked back to the chief, feeling deep, unexpected things stirring within him.

"Can I be of help, Tom?"

"Mighty good of you to offer, sir, but it's too late to do anything except wet down them places next door." A fireman ran up to say Fenton had died. George shivered again; why did he still hear screaming? He shook his head. The chief went on. "It was too late when we got here." George nodded sadly and walked back to his horse.

What happened to George as he left the scene, mounting and letting the horse walk, was the result of tragedy encountered, of horror witnessed. The numbed state in which he'd lately been drifting vanished.