There was a fire on the sidewalk. Something ablaze beside the park. I thought about those self-immolating monks. The guy under McNamara’s window. A cop car had pulled up to the conflagration, shining its lights on it, and a hook and ladder stood in the middle of the street. Soon a jet of water arced over the parked cars and onto the flames. The smoke grew thicker as the fire died. Finally it began to dissipate. The fire truck left. I thought the cops would back up into the driveway behind them and get back on the street. Instead they drove right past the smoldering remains and down the sidewalk. The following morning I passed it on my run. It was a tree branch, made thin and smooth, completely black.