Jonny Firestone

The hardest part was watching another building disintegrate before his eyes. Fire and destruction were a simple truth for Jonny Firestone. He stood barefoot on the curb; his smiley-face pajama pants clung to his frame, saturated in the light but persistent drizzle. He'd love to have his shirt and shoes, but with the house lit up like a sacrifice to the storm, clothes were a pipe dream.

Sirens wailed in the distance, adding to the snapping crackle of the burning house and pitter patter of rain. The squat home had been cute. Single story, with off-white siding and two pillars at the entryway. The screen cracked; the sound pierced the night as it snapped off its hinges and crashed to the ground.

Jonny sighed and brushed away the raindrops collecting on his forehead. It was the third fire in four months. Soon, people would stop renting to him, and like last year, he'd have to move again. Another city, another life.

At first, the homeowners were understanding. The platitudes, "Oh, Jonny, it was just an accident" and "We're just happy you weren't hurt," got old quickly, and eventually, so would his welcome.

The truth was the fires were an accident. Jonny couldn't help starting them, and he never got hurt. As destructive as the roaring inferno was when it consumed his home, it couldn't burn him. He was made of that fire, born with it swirling in his veins and warming his belly.

He wasn't alone. Others in the world supposedly had powers. When he was a child, he had high hopes of becoming something amazing, like in the comics and movies, a superhero who fought crime and saved the innocent while seeking justice.

Jonny laughed, "I was an idiot back then. There's nothing special about me unless someone needs their fireplace started."

It was true too. Oh, how Jonny had tried. He went to school, but he burned his books. The only way he completed his education was through online schooling. He couldn't study at home because computers cost too much. After replacing the first two, Jonny stopped trying to buy anything nice or expensive.

Eventually got fed up trying to finish college; his dream of becoming something more, disintegrated and he found work as a janitor. It was a job anybody could get, and turnover was normal.

The fire truck rolled up, sirens blazing through the night, its headlights blinding Jonny where he stood. Men rushed by. Some went straight to unwrapping the hose; one approached him, an emergency tool kit clutched in his left hand.

"You alright, Sir. Were you the one who reported the fire? Is there anybody else inside?"

Jonny accepted the emergency blanket, appreciative of basic comfort and protection from the rain. "It's just me. There's nobody else."

"Do you need medical attention?" a young EMT asked.

Jonny peered over the fireman's shoulders to see an ambulance had arrived as well. Water was already drenching the ruined building. He sighed in resignation.

"I'm alright," he assured them, approaching the back of the ambulance. It was procedure; he was used to it. At least that time, the EMTs and firemen hadn't recognized him—that was nice.

After getting another blanket across his legs, he suppressed a shiver under the harsh cab lights. He went through the standard checkout procedure; a flashlight in his eyes, a blood pressure cuff squeezed his arm, and a pulsometer was placed on his finger. Satisfied, the EMT determined he was just wet and tired.

Jonny waited for an officer to debrief him.

The fire was smoldering and smoking. With the combined onslaught of rain which had picked up its punch, shedding sheets of tiny droplets on the building, and the firemen wielding the water hose, the flames died down.

The police cruiser arrived, and with it, an officer stepped out. An African American man with short, curly hair and a wiry goatee approached. He spoke to the EMT for a moment and grimaced.

"Evening or is it morning, Officer Winslow." Jonny left the 'good' off that greeting since the situation was anything but.

"Firestone." Winslow grabbed the bill of his hat, settling it more firmly in place, and glanced at the house, sighing loudly. "I really hoped I wouldn't see you again so soon."

Jonny would smile, offer something other than the emptiness eating him away inside, but it was no use. His mouth was stuck in a grim line, his fingers as numb as the rest of him. "I would've liked that too, Sir."

"I assume the story is the same as last time. Can you recount it for me again? I need to make sure the report is accurate. Insurance claims are a nightmare."

"I've got renters insurance since then. The card is in my safe deposit box at the bank." Jonny shrank in defeat. Officer Winslow was a good, hardworking defender of the public. Not one of those cops who made you cringe with their boastful ego and stuffed-up pride. Jonny had spent a while speaking with him last time.

Jonny stated his name, date of birth, and diagnosis. After spending the next twenty minutes recounting his night, bedtime routine, then waking to the house roaring a fiery tune, Jonny followed Winslow and resigned himself to a cold ride in the back of the cruiser.

The drive was silent other than the occasional bleep from dispatch and Winslow rattling off codes in reply. There were laws to protect Jonny and others like him, abnormal people, but that wouldn't stop the hours of detention for questioning. The rain continued its onslaught, the wipers swished a mile a minute, and the streetlights passed by in a blur.

He had prints taken, then stood shivering in the little interrogation room. A metal desk sat bolted to the floor, with matching chairs on either side. Luckily, Jonny wasn't alone for long, and Officer Winslow brought him a new blanket and a standard-issue white tee-shirt.

Winslow stepped out for a moment as Jonny gratefully dried his hair and face, tugged on the shirt, and rewrapped the blanket around his shoulders. The officer returned with a steaming coffee in a tiny paper cup. Jonny didn't like his coffee black but was thankful for the heat as he sipped at the offering and burned his tongue.

If Jonny had an ounce of humor left in his soul, he'd laugh at the irony. Coffee could burn him, but his fire was harmless.

They sat for a moment, Officer Winslow reading his report with his arm propped on the table and his fingers pressed against his temple. The man was on shift but dealing with Jonny couldn't be easy.

"I've come up with a solution."

Jonny's voice caused Winslow to stir. He glanced up, steepling his hands before his mouth. "I'm all ears."

"It's getting worse. The more fires I start, the more they return in my dreams."

"And that's when you accidentally burn down the house."

Jonny cringed, but it was true. "Yeah. I dream it, and then the fire rolls free. It's never happened on its own. I can control myself when I'm awake."

"Okay. Your history states the same. Your files are completely clean, minus being found standing dazed outside burning buildings in the middle of the night. Go on then."

"There are places for people like me. I'd like to—" It was harder to say than Jonny thought it would be, but there was nothing to do but spit it out. He had enough. He'd tried sleeping next to fire extinguishers, under fire-proof blankets; nothing he tried worked. It seemed there was only one last option.

"I'd like to commit myself, Sir. To an institution or whatever they're called for people like me. I've always tried to live where there are no neighbors, but someday someone could get hurt. I'd hate that. The more fires I start, the more dreams I have, then more fires—it's a never-ending cycle." Jonny's voice quivered. Winslow dropped his hands and sat back in his chair.

"You're a good kid."

Jonny winced. He was twenty-four, not a kid. Winslow had some grey in his goatee, though, so he didn't complain. The man was probably old enough to be his father.

"I'm not the kind of guy who usually takes his work home with him, but I hope you'll forgive me. I spoke about you to my wife after the last fire."

Jonny's brows shot up, and a surge of apprehension coursed through him.

Winslow raised his hand in a placating gesture. "Now, I didn't tell her your name or anything like that. I mentioned I had met a young man who had a special ability. We chatted, and you know what, Jonny? I think I got a solution for you. And it has nothing to do with committing yourself to a state institution."

Jonny's shoulders relaxed, but he scoffed. "Gifted, sure. I don't even own a phone, officer; it's an exceptional gift."

"Now, I understand you're frustrated. Heck, I can't imagine what it must be like, but you have options. Let's get you a place to sleep tonight, and tomorrow we can discuss your next steps. Alright?"

Jonny nodded in reluctant acceptance. He was exhausted.

He woke the following day, blissfully flame-free with a sore neck, a throbbing head, and a miserable time recalling everything from the night before. He got to sleep in a holding cell, on a stiff mat with four blankets as company.

Someone had provided Jonny a pair of dry sweatpants and a pair of socks, and along with the white tee-shirt, he found himself trudging through the precinct with Winslow at too early o'clock that morning dressed like a bum. At least he wasn't wet and frozen. Jonny told himself he had to be thankful for small miracles.

"I'm off shift in an hour, but I think this trip will be good for you," Winslow said, putting his hat on as we stepped out the rotating door. 

Clouds were grey and gloomy, hanging low in the sky, but Jonny was glad the rain had quit. The dreary day didn't improve his mood, though, and as he climbed into the backseat of the cruiser for the second time in eight hours, he didn't feel optimistic—he felt defeated.

Winslow couldn't have any real answers for Jonny, could he?

They drove uptown, taking the longer route to avoid rush hour traffic in the city, and the commercial, industrial buildings gave way to parks and residences. A spike of fear burned in Jonny's belly every time he saw homes packed in too tightly.

Didn't they know those things would go off like a stack of dominos if they caught fire?

Over an hour later, they pulled up to a curb, and Winslow let Jonny out the back. Still in socks, he followed after the officer as he made his way down a concrete sidewalk to an overly large two-story home. It boasted a two-car garage in the front and a shiny white suburban in the driveway and rose bushes blooming merrily along the foundation.

"Mrs. Susan Maple is my wife's friend from church. Her daughter, Ida Maple-Riverton, is the woman we'll be meeting today."

"She knows that we're coming?" Jonny asked, feeling more insecure by the minute. He must look like a complete mess.

Winslow stopped at the front door and tucked his hat under his arm. "I called my wife this morning, and she promised me Miss Ida will be more than happy to see us this morning."

His knuckles rapped on the door twice, then he pushed the doorbell. The sounds of feet came pounding forward, then the door swung wide. A woman smiled upon answering. Her face was covered in freckles with red hair piled in a poufy bun on her head. A shorter version of herself was wrapped around her legs, with curious toddler eyes peering up at them. The woman scooped up the child and settled her on her hip as she grinned wider.

"Miss Maple?"

Her face softened; kindness reflected in her wide blue eyes. "You must be Bret Winslow. My mamma told me you'd be coming by. Come in, come in."

She stepped aside as Jonny followed Officer Winslow, Bret, into the home. White tiles met thick grey carpeting, and Jonny found himself standing uncomfortably in the foyer, not daring to step his dirty stockinged feet on the clean carpet.

"Oh, you can come on in. What's your name? You're the special one, right?"

Jonny's shoulders shot up, and he winced, "I'm Jonny Firestone. Nice to meet you, Miss Maple-Riverton. Though I should probably just—go."

"Oh, nonsense. And you're making me sound like I'm my mom." She laughed, carrying around that curious toddler-like she weighed nothing. "Just call me Ida. The boys are all out back now that the sun's coming out; they'll be delighted to meet you."

They followed Ida through the house and into the kitchen, where they exited through a sliding glass door.

There were three men outside that Jonny could tell. The first one looked about his age. He had on safety glasses, and the hum of the weed whacker died away as he glanced toward the house, wiping his brow with a gloved hand. Another, a teenager, was playing on his phone at the lawn table in the shade of a large blue umbrella. The third man was probably in his mid-thirties, with mocha skin and a thick black beard. He closed the shed door, grabbed the leaf rake, and came over to meet them.

"This is Kenny Riverton, my husband.” Jonny shook Kenny's hand as Ida introduced them, then rounded on the teen, bopping him gently on the head to get his attention. "Here we have Michael Whitewater, and the man with the shit-eating grin that's about to hug you," she pointed as the weed whacker guy jogged toward them, “Is Ian Kindle."

Indeed, Ian bypassed Jonny's outstretched hand and wrapped him up in a bear hug. He rocked Jonny from side to side as Jonny gently patted Ian's back, unsure how to respond to so much forwardness.

Ian let him out of the hug but kept an arm around his shoulders, and Jonny tried to offer the friendly man a smile, though he wasn't sure he succeeded.

Winslow took a seat in another lawn chair and plunked his hat back on his head. It had to be exhausting being so polite, but Winslow was just that kind of guy. The type of person, once upon a time, Jonny wanted to be.  

"Nice to meet you all, but I'm not sure why I'm here."

Ian's eyes sparkled as he grinned down at Jonny. Then Kenny smiled too and removed his gloves. "If I had to guess, you got yourself in some trouble with the law?"

Jonny's brows furrowed. He had, but he wasn't a criminal.

"Don't be upset, sweetheart. My husband means well." Ida said, smiling like a fool in love as Kenny shot her a wink.

"I do. Here, maybe this will clear things up." Kenny held out his hands and rolled them together, forming a ball of liquid. Jonny's mouth dropped open as things became clear.

Kenny winked again. "Mikey, catch!"

He tossed the ball of water toward the teenager, who grabbed his phone and shrieked, turning away to protect it. The water splashed on Michael's back, and he cursed up a storm.

"I just got this phone!" he cried, but Kenny only laughed harder at the drenched kid.

"Got to be thinking on your feet. You could have caught it."

Michael shot Kenny a scathing look, tucking his phone in his back pocket. He mimed Kenny's moves, and suddenly bubbles of water were being hurled back and forth. The little girl squealed in excitement and took off after Kenny. Winslow chuckled, jumping out of his seat to find cover. Jonny stood with Ian in shock as they watched the others play.

When they got tired of chasing each other around the yard, they dropped back into their chairs, wet shirts sticking to their skin but smiles on their faces.

"It's nice to meet all of you, but I have questions," Jonny said, still apprehensive. 

He didn't control the element of water; if he did, life would be a lot easier. Maybe he'd have to pay for flood damage, but that was nothing compared to the destruction of fire.

"Ah," Ian said, as he shook his head like he understood. "How about this then?" Ian snapped his fingers, and a flickering flame danced in his palm. "Look a little more familiar, my friend?"

Jonny escaped out from under Ian's grasp and imitated the gesture, looking at the man in a new light. Ian smiled, and Jonny returned the look before dousing his flame. "I don't get it. Do you not dream of fire? How do you not set things alight?" Everybody else disappeared from Jonny's sight as he found compassion and understanding in Ian's soft gaze.

"Of course, I do. There will always be mistakes, but you have to sleep contained. Or take something to stop dreaming, but that's not completely safe. Come with me. I want to show you something."

They made their way into the house and downstairs. At the end of the basement hall stood a metal door, and Ian pushed it open, letting Jonny through. A metal bed stood with a soft mattress sat next to a metal end table. The walls were painted concrete, and another metal door stood off to the side. It led to a closet filled with belongings, including a computer.

Jonny's eyes welled with tears, as everything came together. It was the answer he sought, a way to live with his gift. A family who understood him.

Turning back, the whole group stood in the room, soft smiles on their faces. He didn't know what to say.

It was Ian who broke the silence. "Welcome home, brother."