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Fumes by Kristine Kathryn Rusch He made them turn on the siren. He'd never heard it from inside the car before. He was disappointed that it sounded so faint, not louder like he expected. The radio buzzed and burbled, but he couldn't catch the words. The car smelled faintly of gasoline. The officers made him sit in the back. They bundled him in quick like they were hiding him, then drove off faster than they had to, given that the emergency was over. Ernie stared at the fine web of lines on the passenger window, making it even harder to break. No door handles, no locks, and a scratched plastic screen behind a metal grill, protecting them from him. They hadn't cuffed him. They hadn't read him his rights like the detectives did on TV. But they were more efficient than those guys, wearing real uniforms and talking to everyone in the neighborhood. He didn't look at the house, its back corner still burning. Certainly not at the garbage cans in the back, charred and burnt, their lids long gone. The curtains in the window above had become ash. Funny the smoke had no smell. Except that little whiff of gasoline, like he used to get when he went to the gas station with |
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