A single police officer, dressed in black in a thick jacket for the chilly October evening, talked on his radio as he looked around the park and the flames. He noticed me, stopped talking to whoever he was talking to, and I could almost see the sigh. “Will Grayson,” he said. “My favorite pyro.” I pulled off my hat and gave him a smile. “Baker. How’s the family?” “Growing.” He nodded, stepping toward me as I stepped toward him. “The wife is on baby number three.” “Yours?” He cocked an eyebrow, looking unamused. I smiled wider. “Are you going to make me handcuff you?” he asked. I shook my head.
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