The fires started when the city lost power. Unaccustomed to lanterns and candles, the orbs grew careless. Their children spilled wax, upset tins of lamp oil. Discarded matches ignited; whole buildings burned. Smoke smeared the sky a mottled mustard yellow. Heavy scorched air stung her nose and clung to her clothing. At the top of the hill, she huddled in her room in front of the pot-bellied stove. Mornings she gathered sticks in the park. Afternoons she visited the library, open still in daylight hours for now. Here news accumulated, what little there was. Phone lines were dead. Bike couriers surpassed their previous heyday of high demand. De facto leaders established a depot in a guarded area, whereby surplus goods could be stockpiled and dispensed from a central location. Some of these professed leaders also mentioned the books as a potential source of fuel, as wood suitable for burning grew scarce. She heard the librarians discussing it in hushed tones. She checked out extra books that day and for the first time considered not returning them.