“Let’s don’t pester him, he’ll know when it’s time,” said Jem.
The Abbottsville fire truck began pumping water on our house; a man on the roof pointed to places that needed it most.
I watched our Absolute Morphodite go black and crumble; Miss Maudie’s sunhat settled on top of the heap.
I could not see her hedge-clippers. In the heat between our house, Miss Rachel’s and Miss Maudie’s,
the men had long ago shed coats and bathrobes. They worked in pajama tops and nightshirts stuffed into their pants,
but I became aware that I was slowly freezing where I stood.
Jem tried to keep me warm, but his arm was not enough. I pulled free of it and clutched my shoulders.
By dancing a little, I could feel my feet. Another fire truck appeared and stopped in front of Miss Stephanie Crawford’s.
There was no hydrant for another hose, and the men tried to soak her house with hand extinguishers.
Miss Maudie’s tin roof quelled the flames. Roaring, the house collapsed; fire gushed everywhere,
followed by a flurry of blankets from men on top of the adjacent houses, beating out sparks and burning chunks of wood.
It was dawn before the men began to leave, first one by one, then in groups.
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