I look eastward, searching for the signs of the rising sun as I dig around in my pocket for the matches. I estimate three minutes, which means I’ve made good time. I look down at my feet, noticing that my socks are wet and golden. I smile, sitting on the stop in front of the door to pull them off. My toes will not burn as I imagined, but will remain intact, unlike this house.

            The smell of kerosene somehow itches my feet, and I rub them against the pavement as I wait out the three minutes. The time draws nearer, nearer, nearer. Goosebumps. My face is cold, and my hands are guilty. I will sleep easy tonight. I will drink in the dawn in shots. Raise my glass to the flames and say ‘cheers’. Oz will burn.

            Finally, I decide it is time. The sun will start to come up at any moment, though I know it will be the patient friend I’ve always found it to be. If I took another hour, sitting, the sun would cease to rise for me. It would wait for the house to burn.

            But I am too kindly to my friend, the sun. Or perhaps I am eager to transform a home to a pile of smoldering ashes. To a pile of smoldering Ashley.

            I look at my guilty hands, a match pinched between my fingers in one and the box resting in the palm of the other. I move my fingers to striking position, and flick the match across the rough striking area.

            There is a scraping sound, but the match head does not catch, does not spark, does not light. I switch it across again, pressing more firmly.

            It strikes. The flame hisses for a moment before settling, blowing slightly in the wind. I tuck the match box quickly into my pocket, cupping the flame to keep it from going out. I smile, knowing the flame is reflecting menacingly in my eyes. I look down at my feet, notice my half-soaked socks, and ease myself to a crouching position. I pick up one of the socks, holding it up over the flame delicately, hesitant to permit them to lick the kerosene-dipped edge of the fabric.