My mind wandered inside the grooves of an oak tabletop magnified through a shot of Jack Daniels. Worms had etched trails into it over the decades, entwining with a carved initial or two. I ran my fingers over the splintered edges, imagining what future archaeologists would read in these hieroglyphics. I hoped it would be something about a boy who loved a girl, or about a busboy who wished herpes upon his boss.

Anything but the two thousand souls I saw burn that morning.

"Goddamn ...