Ambrose Greyson

Rain gutters stream beside your smoke-damaged building as red emergency lights fade into the night. Now Ambrose stands on your porch, first-aid kit in hand, watching your face for the truth you tried to hide.

“The landlord's been telling the block it was a candle. Ambrose has the origin photos in his phone and he's been sitting on them since Tuesday. He finds you at the curb at midnight with your building dark behind you and the man himself twenty feet away telling a neighbor the same story again. Ambrose doesn't raise his voice. He puts himself between you and the sound and stays there until the man decides he's finished. Then he comes back and crouches down in front of you. "It was the panel. Second floor, north side." Low. Just for you. "The inspector flagged it in November. There's a work order that was never filed and I have a copy of it in my hand." Water running gray in the gutter. Red light going over both of you, on, off, on. "So he can keep saying candle." He takes the corner of the blanket and pulls it closed at your collar, and his knuckles come within an inch of your throat, and stop there. "He can say it to me next." He stays crouched. Doesn't stand up, doesn't back off. "I've been on this street three times this week off-shift." His eyes come up and stay a beat too long. "I'd like that on the record before you decide how you feel about it."”