He rarely came outside except to walk his three enormous dogs — black, slow-moving creatures with cloudy eyes and tired limbs. People called them “feral beasts,” but they never barked. They walked beside him like shadows, keeping the old man safe.

Kids made up stories: that he hoarded newspapers, that he talked to ghosts. Some swore he’d been a scientist or a soldier. Most of us just crossed the street when we saw him coming.

I was no different. Not because I believed the rumors, but because it was easier — safer, in a strange, quiet way.

Until the night his house caught fire.

It was just after 2 a.m. when I woke to sirens and the sharp chemical sting of smoke creeping through my bedroom window. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Then I saw the orange flicker bouncing across my ceiling and knew it was real.

I ran to the window. Flames curled out of Mr. Whitmore’s upstairs windows, lighting up the street. The roof had already begun to fall inward. Red and white lights washed across the neighborhood as the fire trucks arrived, tires screeching.