| The Dogs.
John scooped some ash off the ground and threw it at the back of Peter’s head, dulling his red hair. In retaliation he then grabbed two handfuls, and lofted it back at John. Startled, his brother jumped backwards and the ash exploded into a plume of dust. The boys chased each other around the house’s skeletal structure until Peter leaped and tackled him and they hit the ground and laughed.
Mother didn’t usually allow this sort of behaviour but she was occupied inside the house. She carefully stepped between piles of debris. Drafts of wind crossed her face and tangled her hair. She examined the structure of the house her husband built, and cursed whoever it was across town that left their iron plugged in, or their stove unattended, or whatever it was. Outside in the yard she could hear her two children wrestling, their cries and laughter washing over her. How could they laugh amidst all this ash?
Somewhere under the wreckage was Dad, betrayed by his own creation. The local rescue teams were busy with “situations with a higher probability of survival.” Earlier she had called the emergency shelter. They said they could keep her for forty days, no more, because they didn’t “have the funds, especially in a mass emergency like this” to keep them any longer.
Mum then watched as the two boys lay supine holding hands, moving their arms and legs through the ash in unison. Flames had eaten the wall separating her from the outside. The front door frame was still standing. She stepped across the threshold to the yard and sat by Peter and John. At the sight of their mother the two boys lifted their crosshatched heads up.
“Look Mummy, angels holding hands!”
The boys set their heads back down. She stared off into the distance and let her mind run some more laps.
Flames reflected off David’s face as he stood watching smoke pour out of the house’s windows. He held Mary’s hand. Her pulse beat against his palm. Sweat ran down his face. Five minutes ago he rushed through the house and grabbed his screaming boys from the smoke. His family’s home was past saving.
A howl rang through the air. David’s head pounded. He hadn’t forgotten the dogs. The house had already been overtaken with smoke when he grabbed the boys. He prayed they’d find their own way out. Then, another howl.
He took off towards the house, the pleas of Mary falling at his feet. The three stood staring at the house. They heard another howl and then splintering wood. The roof caved in on top of David and his dogs.
“Mum, it’s snowing.”
“No. That’s ash. Falling ash.”
She sat down on the grass and watched until the fire burned out. A tear slid down her face and washed away a streak of soot.
The sun was all the way up. It was Wednesday but the boys weren’t at school. Mary looked at them rolling through the ash that used to make up her home. Dead. Dead for a couple of dogs. Forty days. Forty days of canned food and cheap fish until she could get on with her life. Something, she’d find something. Or maybe not. She’d worry about it later.
She lay above the two angel figures. Dead for a couple of fucking ungrateful dogs, she thought. | 
