He lifted another plank and carried it toward the fire, the heat scorching his face. But it felt good, cleansing. The plank disintegrated as soon as it hit the blue flame in the glowing steel tank.

He saw the old man watching him from under a stand of trees, the farmhouse off in the distance, his eyes milk white, not really seeing anymore.

“And God looked upon the earth, and behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth,” the old man shouted.

It occurred to him that he could throw the old man into the flames. No one would care. But it was better this way. Trapped in a body that had given out on him, a prisoner with a life sentence.

He gathered an armload of rotting planks and tossed them into the flames. A sudden burst of red, yellow and blue exploded into the air, a beautiful sight, the Phoenix rising from the ashes. A new life, a new purpose, a new beginning.

George Wheeler felt around with his right foot until he found solid ground. He swung his left foot out of the minivan and tried to stand. It was impossible without the use of his hands, and they were tied behind his back. How many times had he ridden in a minivan with his boys-a newer model with the sliding doors on each side that they’d had some dumb white girl rent from a dealer in New Hampshire so it couldn’t be traced back to them-ready to do a drive-by, never thinking that he would end up in a spot like this?