I stared at her, amused. Wendy had lived next door for years. She was a year younger than me, so I pretty much ignored her all this time. Now here she was, admitting that she likes fire too. We have something in common, and it seems very weird.

She turned and ran across her lawn and into the house. I stared at the space where she had disappeared. I wondered if there was anything else we had in common.

Then I sort of shook myself. I was staring, it was the same sort of staring I did when the flames danced.

I went to watch my fire burn down. I was pretty sure Mom would be fine. I wanted to share my feelings with the flames, like telling a secret to a friend.

I poked a stick into the fire and prodded the embers until the end of the stick was lit. Then I drew pictures in the air above me with the flame. The light twisted and wove, leaving fading images in long streams of yellow before my eyes. My eyes wanted to hold the images longer than they wanted to stay.

I drew friendship, and happiness. I drew Wendy.