He saw the burning throat and the tongue of flame, heard the basso growl of fire and the sucking air, mingling with the threnody of a lone trombone from the street. “Don’t Be That Way.” They were playing “Don’t Be That Way.” Benny pounded on the glass with his fists. “No!” he screamed. “No!” Annabelle looked up then. She was gripping Kenji’s clarinet in her hands, and her face was as white as ash, and tears were streaming down it. She caught sight of her son through the glass, and her hands reached out to him, and he could see her lips move in the shape of his name. Benny . . . ! Behind her,
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