marshmallows and Tony's a fricken genius.

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The flames lick and spit, and the house kneels in slow, majestic stages. The
back half collapses first, a cheapie addition that's fifty years younger than
the rest of the place. The front porch follows in the aftershock, and it sends a
constellation of embers skittering towards the marshmallow-roasters, who beat at
each other's coats until they're all extinguished.

As the resident crip, I've weaseled my way into one of the kitchen chairs, and
I've got it angled to face the heat. I sit close enough that my face feels like
it's burning, and I turn it to the side and feel the delicious cool breeze.

The flames are on the roof, now, and I'm inside my own world, watching them.
They dance spacewards, and I feel a delicious thrill as I realise that the
bugouts are not there, that the bugouts are not watching, that they took my
parents and my problems and vanished.

I'm broken from the reverie by Daisy Duke, who's got a skimask on, the mouth
rimmed in gummy marshmallow. She's got two more marshmallows in one
three-fingered cyclist's glove.

"Mmm. Marshmallowey," I say. It's got that hard carboniferous skin and the gooey
inside that's hot enough to scald my tongue. "I *like* it."

"Almost New Year's," she says.

"Yuh-huh."

"Gonna make any resolutions?" she asks.

"You?"

"Sure," she says, and I honestly can't imagine what this perfectly balanced
person could possibly have to resolve. "You first," she says.

"Gonna get my knee fixed up."

"That's *it*?"

"Yuh-huh. The rest, I'll play by ear. Maybe I'll find some Process-heads to hit.
Howbout you?"

"Get the plumbing upstairs working again. Foam the whole place. Cook one meal a
week. Start teaching self-defense. Make sure your knee gets fixed up." And
suddenly, she seems like she's real *old*, even though she's only twenty-five,
only three years older than me.

"Oh, yeah. That's real good."

"Got any *other* plans for the next year, Maxes?"

"No, nothing special." I feel a twinge of freeloader's anxiety. "Maybe try and
get some money, help out around here. I don't know."

"You don't have to worry about that. Tony may run this place, but I'm the one
who found it, and I say you can stay. I just don't want to see you," she
swallows, "you know, waste your life."

"No sweatski." I'm not even thinking as I slip into *this* line. "I'll be just
fine. Something'll come up, I'll figure out what I want to do. Don't worr