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the sirens. I wish I could describe what it looked like. The fire engine, I mean. I thought Mom’s car was gritty, but that was before that diesel engine. I could feel the humming electricity even in the soles of my feet, even when it wasn’t within sight. I could feel that thing coming like an electric stampede of red weight and light at my temples, and that must have shown on my face because Auburn-Stache lifted me up into his arms and jogged me away from it as it pulled up. Dorian Gray was meowing like nobody’s business, and Auburn-Stache’s chest rose and fell like running was the last thing Englishmen in paisley were used to.
    There was Mom, staring at our house going up in flames, watching smoke and ash pour from the haven she’d set up for herself and her kid, and she still looked at least halfway exasperated about it all. And I only had eyes for the flashing lights and bleeding black smog that smothered the fire truck. It’s what I imagine an old locomotive might look like, if that locomotive came roaring out of hell. Like some massive battering ram, all black and red smoke and bursts of white light that churned and spat into oblivion before my watering eyes. Grond! Grond! (Read Tolkien!)
    I remember seeing some other amazing things. I saw policemen with walkie-talkies that left trails of saffron dust in the air whenever they buzzed with noise. I remember the blue light atop cars piercing through the clouds around the fire truck, but they didn’t look only blue to me. They were spinning fronds of multicolor, fanning streaks of chartreuse and aquamarine that stabbed through puffs of burgundy and umber.
    I should have looked away. My skull hummed against my brain. My nose was running, my eyes poured, and it had less to do withthe fire than it did with the electrical auras buzzing in the air, making me itch from head to toe like I had some sort of volcanic sun rash.
    But I saw so many colors that night, so many that maybe even you should be a little jealous.
    Mom wouldn’t let anyone near me. She couldn’t be sure they weren’t stashing phones or Tasers in their utility belts. Auburn-Stache chuckled when he saw I’d singed the side of my pants, but his eyes were shining. When Mom stomped back over to us, I rounded my shoulders in preparation for an almighty reaming.
    Mom flew right past me and had Auburn-Stache by the shoulders, shaking him.
    â€œWhat did you do? Another
harmless
digital watch?”
    â€œOf course not!” he protested. “It was an accident! Electromagnetism wouldn’t simply light a fire!”
    â€œDon’t say ‘of course not,’ as if you’ve never pushed him before. Oliver is not one of your experiments!”
    â€œYou don’t need to tell me that.” The fire in his eyes was only halfway due to the reflection of the flames behind us.
    â€œHe isn’t
your
son.”
    I was gaping at the pair of them because this was a bigger spectacle than the fire, even. Mom and Auburn-Stache
never
fought. They sipped beers on the porch some evenings, got teary eyed and red faced when they thought I wasn’t peeking down with binoculars.
    Now Mom was looking at Auburn-Stache like he’d been beating me.
    â€œMeredith,” he said slowly, eyes reflecting the firelight, “I would never harm him. You have to know that.”
    Mom let out a laugh like a bark. “I think I can cut Ollie’s hair from now on.”
    â€œPlease.”
The blood left his cheeks, Moritz.
    I rushed forward and grabbed her elbow. “Mom! He didn’t do anything!”
    She slumped. “Not this time, he didn’t.”
    Mom, covered in black ash, let go of Dr. Auburn-Stache, wrapped her arms around me, and squeezed too tightly.
    I could see Dr. Auburn-Stache over her shoulder, white against the red-black.
    We stayed in a tent for a month, which the police thought was weird. But camping out and cooking hot dogs was an