I rubbed at my eyes, ruminating. About fire and its consequences, mainly. About the fact that New York resembles a kicked anthill. About Alderman Symmes and his vices. About the fact that I’d left Miss Sally Woods well before noon and that if she’d quit her queer greenhouse home minutes afterward, newly infused with righteous brimstone over the fact that Symmes had set a copper star on her tail, supposing she’d already planted the necessary inflammables, nothing would have prevented her from—
