Chapter Eighty-Eight. Cal.
The fire dance from the orange and yellow flames which curled and climbed the trunk of the Sycamore tree, bobbed in protest as the spray from my heavy hose doused them. This was a relatively easy blaze to contain, however, if not for the fishermen who had seen the teenage pyromaniacs in the making setting the fire’s quick call to us, then things could have been a lot worse than just a singular tree catching light. This area was dense with trees and bushes, a natural beauty spot visited by families and fishermen alike. Hell, I bring Kirstie and Dante here to feed the ducks. Joanne and Whip-Me take a daily walk around both lakes, given they live just a stone’s throw beyond the trees and bushes, and over the road.
Had we not received the call when we did, thi
