The Fireman

by Joe Hill

With that burn on his neck. That black hand—cooked right in the skin. And his eyes, you know? Like dusty old glass. Like doll’s eyes.” “Listen to you. You’re practically Lord Byron, with the similes.”

Once, Harper had thought that smooth bright glass face looked like the Future. Now she thought no other object in the entire world more fully embodied the Past.

In any random slaughter, the difference between living and dying rarely has anything to do with willpower or wisdom or pluck. It’s just a matter of where you’re standing. Two inches to the right and the bus hits you. If your office is on the ninety-second floor instead of the ninetieth, you don’t make it out in time.

“Whoo, hello, was that just what you needed? It was just what I needed. Well, it was one of the things I needed. It’s a pretty long list. I NEED to know that Michael Fassbender is still alive, because, HELLO! That man was right in so many ways. He was setting ladies on fire way before the spore got loose, you know what I mean?

You don’t talk to an ocean and it don’t talk back. You just … let it carry you.”

It took me a moment to realize he was joking. He was very dry. He didn’t even smile at his own jokes, let alone laugh at them. Didn’t give you any clues he was being funny.