The flames burned high into the blackness of the night. The stars above that had so graciously provided their twinkling lights began to disappear behind an onslaught of ashen cloud. The smoke filled not only the skies but also the wheezing lungs of police and firefighters as they surrounded the burning building with their caution signs and water hoses. Every burst of fire was met with a brick or an entire section of the place falling to the ground in heaps of smoldering rubble. Streams of water jetted into the wild blaze and on the fields surrounding it as hopeful people yelled orders to one another to attempt to quell the hot, buckling disaster.

An officer asked another, "What is this place? I didn't even know it was out here."

That was a common sentiment that night and no one would have any answers for a long time after. It wouldn't be until an officer, three days later, found the charred remains of a young girl that things began to paint any picture at all. It was a typical murder scene at first; kill someone and burn everything down with it. But after the fourth body was discovered, the wicked reality of the situation reared its unkempt head into the hearts and minds of any who'd catch wind of it. That was especially true in that small town of Lavaca, whose history was that of long winters and hot summers but not much else to speak of. The town of a couple-thousand residents that someone wouldn't pay any mind to their entire life had suddenly become the epicenter of news articles and gossip of the worst kind.

Hikers and hunters would comment in those articles about how they'd always seen that place, so deep into the woods, but never paid real attention to it. To them, it was just another worn-down building without any real presence. A hole in the wall, so to speak, left to sit and rot in between the rolling hills and the maple trees. One more decaying building amongst many, born too early to bear the modern winds that crept up and over the grasses and the bush that dotted the fields. They hadn't known, nor could they, of the living beings who struggled for survival within its walls. Every soul inside the belly of that horrid construction had vied for their time in the sun and to feel the fresh air encapsulate their lungs. To those on the outside, that place was nothing more than a peripheral object; a place not worth a second glance.

But there it was in rubble, cooked in the heat from the fire and scattered about in heaps of stone, nail, and bodies. Sections of the place, burrowed deep underground, had become completely encased in the soil from whatever explosion had done so much damage. There would be forty-two confirmed deaths by the time the search had completed, possibly more that couldn't be found. The detectives and the many other investigators would soon find stretchers and birthing equipment. They'd find rudimentary cribs and power tools. Seven televisions and thirteen refrigerators. A hammer with a yellow handle, sticking up out of what seemed to be the remains of a small room. All of it was burned and charred, requiring great care not to break in their search for DNA evidence.

The few bodies that had been at all examinable showed evidence of malnutrition and physical abuse. One of the female victims had a broomstick almost completely fused into her hand from the heat. Another's fingers seemed elongated, and her knees were dented inward from an excess of using them to walk, perhaps forcibly. A male subject was discovered with his arms raised and stitched to the sides of his head, though the flames had burned most of the stitching off. No one wanted to see what they'd seen there. One of the investigators had told a reporter during an interview that she thought that nearly every person involved should have had professional help after dealing with the incident.

"There's only so much someone can take, you know," the woman said, "and I'll be the first to admit that I went to see a therapist. I mean, I can't even go into detail about some of the things we saw in there."

Although William had lived through it, he never could have guessed what had truly transpired so close to him while living in there. Officer Boone was never keen to tell him much about the investigation unless it involved him directly. Rules were rules, in her mind. But there were times when she would bend them just a little. He'd been in the Lavaca Detention Center for a few weeks after he admitted to the murder of the man in the house. When Boone read him his rights, he didn't have the slightest clue as to what they meant.

"Just say you understand, trust me." She said.

"I understand." He said.

He enjoyed the meals he got in there, he'd even begun to add some color to his complexion and had ridden his face of the deathly paleness and the sunken eyes. He liked the buttered toast more than anything else.

"Extra butter, please." He'd say in the morning to Boone.

"You bet."

The toast was always extra crispy, and he'd begin with one of the slices, admiring its triangle-shaped beauty as he held it above his plate. He'd take a bite from one end and then he'd bite off the other before he took a swig of his orange juice. It would continue like that until he held the final piece of the second slice which he would set down on the plate and begin to eat his eggs.

"Why don't you finish the last piece of it?" Boone asked him one morning.

"What do you mean?" Said William.

"I mean your toast. You eat it all until that one last bite and then you set it down."

"Oh. I'm saving it for last." Said William.

"I could just get you another piece, you know." She said.

"Yeah, but then it's not as special. I'm working for that last bite." He said.

Boone tried her best to look out for him. Much of the town had pinned William as the only possible suspect.

"It's gotta be him!" An older woman said to a news reporter, "the guy shoots a man in his home and next thing you know - everything's on fire! C'mon now."

William had no interest in "news" and didn't truly know what it was, either. He was fine most nights, sitting in his cell and looking up into the sky through the barred window. Some of the stars looked like they were winking at him and others seemed brighter than the moon. He wanted the cell with the window, which Officer Boone was more than happy to provide him. Sometimes, he'd forget that he could hum, something that wasn't allowed around Father. One night, he hummed, wrapped in his blanket, in rhythm to the sound of the wind hitting a loose piece of vinyl siding just outside his window. Even though he was free to do so, it felt so wrong for him to do it. So, he would hum quietly, hoping that no one would hear him.