“The only answer is arson”, you had said, with an ounce of familiarity.

As if, you too, had accompanied the job as the gallons trickled over windshields— greasing over, obscuring view to a blur.

A mere moment in time before the flames hit the surface, melting those wipers, pungent rubber prickling the air.

I sat cold in that classroom.

Papers unfurling toward me like the gallons trickling over.

Waiting for the moment that they’d ignite before me, setting your glassy eyes the same shade as that amber.

“The only answer is arson”, we’d joke.

Then, they came to me.

Smiling warm with daggers not yet bloody.

Pinning me in that room,

hitting me with everything I’d been afraid of.

“The only answer is arson”, you’d said afterwards, wet cloth to my bloodied cheek.

Their footsteps outlined my mission.

Our mission.

_Your_ mission.

“The only answer is arson,” you said, so serious in the moment, stood beside me.

Unwavering, even as the flames leaped to the forest.

Even as they came for us.