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it. Now, the match must do its work; the sound of the strike, a thrill to his fingertips. A sizzling flare filled his sight, causing him to squint, until it settled to a bright white flame.
    He casually dropped the match into the receptacle. To him, it took forever to fall. Once among the paper, it began to quickly consume the waiting fuel. Benito moved the crackling, flaming, metal bucket beneath the bed. Better this way. Mr. Jacobs wouldn’t understand, though he felt certain the elderly man would be happy knowing his death would have meaning.
    Turning back toward the door, a twinge shot through his neck. Again he stretched the muscles, turning his head, as he extended them first to the left, then to the right.
    At the exit he paused, watching the flames lick hungrily beneath the bed of the sleeping man. To Benito it appeared a work of art, a beach bonfire, good memories, distant and untouchable, as though they were no longer part of his history. Something blocked them, held them hostage.
    The voice urged him: Complete the mission, stay straight and true.
    He pulled the door shut and walked across the hall to Mrs. Simpson’s room. She was blind. He pitied her. The flames were really something to see. He had a vague memory of helping Mrs. Simpson with flowers and changing her bedclothes. Then the images vanished.
    This time, he wouldn’t use the electric lights; he knew the layout of the room. A sliver of moonlight marked the floor allowing just enough light to see. He walked through the gray darkness, his body slicing through the space as though he was made of sharp edges. She had no light, so neither would he. He honored and respected these people who would shortly die for a noble cause.
    One foot after the other. One match after the other. One victim after the other.
    Benito opened the bathroom door, but the wastebasket wasn’t there. Frustratingly, this forced him to flick on the lights. There was the basket, behind the door.
    He picked up the wastebasket and rifled through the contents. Yes, enough fuel there. Inside, a folded newspaper and scrunched up toilet paper with fruit peel scraps scattered between.
    Now where?
    He’d used curtains; he’d used a bed; where else could he place his work of warm art? He moved to the bathroom doorway and stood at the threshold between the small, lit room and the darkened bedroom.
    Reaching into his pocket for the matches, the resonance of his hand against the fabric of his pants was of a rushing wind before a storm. The sound meant he was on the right path.
    “Who is it there?”
    Mrs. Simpson’s dry, raspy voice stopped him. Her eyes would be open but unseeing. A shame this beautiful sight stolen from her.
    “Is that you, Sophia? What time is it, dear?”
    Benito left the bathroom to stand by her bed, the wastebasket clutched in his hand along with the matches. They itched in his palm to be struck.
    One moment. One more moment.
    He stood, listening to her struggling breath.
    “What are you doing there? I can’t see.” Her voice was cracked and hesitant from age and sleep.
    The dark felt pleasant on his skin, creeping inside him, filtering through his pores and into his cells, filling him with desire to strike the match and illuminate the room.
    Benito placed the basket at the end of the bed, nestled between the folds of the bedcovers. Mrs. Simpson’s frame, so shrunken from age and decay, took up only half the bed. Her mind was good but cell-by-cell time had whittled away her body.
    Her voice, more urgent now: “What’s going on? I was asleep. You woke me!”
    Somehow she sensed this wasn’t normal, that something was wrong. If he spoke, she would recognize Benito’s voice, the cadence of his accent, although he’d lived here all his life. His father was from India; his mother met her husband there on a sabbatical in her twenties.
    Now the match.
    Oh, God, the match would be such a blessing. He struck the beautifully shaped wood, so perfect for the task, the design