halfheartedly at the frozen dirt around the roots of the tree outside. Lore wondered why it wasn’t hibernating.
Outside, the temperature plummeted. Spanner went out less frequently to do business—“People don’t go out as much in this weather.” And Lore, who had now cleared most of the debris from the back garden and planted her spring bulbs more than a month ago, only went out to leave plates of leftovers for the cat she had seen that once.
They were watching the news and drinking loc—a hot, chocolate liqueur—when they heard about a fire in the warehouse district.
“Get your coat on.”
By the time they got there, the firefighters were gone and all that was left was the stink of charred three-hundred-year-old timbers and bricks cracked open by the heat. The warehouse was still dripping, but icicles were forming, and the lake of hose water was turning to sheet ice. There was no one about; it was too cold for sightseeing. In the orangy street light, Lore’s breath cloud looked like a bizarre special effect.
“Keep your eyes open.”
“What—” But Spanner was already bending down, levering up what looked like a section of pavement but which turned out to be a two-foot-square panel of plastone.
“What are you doing?”
“This is the master switch”—she pointed at a red panel—“but we don’t want them all.” She flipped up the lid of the nearest of a row of squat gray boxes and touched something. Four streetlights went dark. She opened a second box. More lights went out.
“Come on.” She pulled a hand light from her pocket. Its blue-white beam licked at the rubble. She scrambled up over a pile of bricks and pipe. The flashlight whipped around as she turned. “What’s the matter?”
Lore shaded her eyes with her hand, spoke to a silhouette. “It won’t be safe. Why don’t we just wait for the firefighters to come back when it’s light and flatten everything. Then we could take our time.”
“Five minutes after the building is safe, there won’t be anything left. And there are some good timbers here.”
There were. There were so many that once Spanner had a pile of what she wanted—which had cost Lore a burned finger and several scares as rafters sagged, suddenly, and floor timbers shifted—she called Billy and Ann, who brought a van. Obviously stolen for the occasion.
“But what do we want wood for?” Lore asked.
“A new front door.”
“What’s wrong with the one we have?”
“Does it matter? Maybe I just want a new one.”
Lore eyed the beams warily. Risking their lives, just because Spanner wanted something to do.
Lore and Spanner spent nine days building a new door from the thick, old timbers they had scavenged. They took down the old door and hung the new one the afternoon the rain turned to a thin gray snow.
Lore stretched her back and kicked the old door. “I don’t relish hauling it about in this weather.”
“We could break it up for firewood.”
“We don’t need a fire. It’s already hot in here.” The flat was stifling. Spanner ran illegal spurs from the power lines and was as profligate with heat as with everything else: food, sex, promises.
But Spanner had disappeared into the hallway and come back with a sledgehammer. She hefted it a couple of times. Lore stepped out of the way and Spanner swung. The old door splintered with a satisfying crack!
“I said, we don’t need a fire. It’s—”
“If you’re hot, open the windows. Fresh air’s good for you.” She swung again.
Lore did not understand Spanner when she got in these moods. She had no point of reference for the frenzy, the constant urge to do, to use, to experience that often lasted for several days at a time. So she tried to remember what she knew about open fires, and peered as best she could up the chimney to see if the flue was clear. There was no ash in the grate. “Have you had a fire here before?”
“I’m sure I must have.” Rip. Splinter.
Lore moved the plants. “We’ll need some paper, and kindling. I think.” She rummaged around. “We don’t have any paper.”
Spanner paused, breathing heavily. “Look under the bed.”
Lore trooped into the bedroom. Looked. “There’s only your box.”
“Then we’ll use some of that stuff.”
“No. We can—”
“Bring it,” Spanner yelled. Lore sighed, and did.
“Open it.” Crunch, splinter.
It was full of old photographs and documents. What looked like a birth certificate from the middle of the last century. “I don’t think you’ll want to use this.” She started to put the lid back on, uncomfortable