,”hesaid.

    Miyakehaddoneaskillfuljobofinterlagthebiggerlogsandsmallerscrapsuntilhispilehadetoresemblesomekindofavant-gardesculpture.Steppingbackafewpaces,hewouldexamineiailtheformhehadstructed,adjustsomeofthepieces,thencirclearoundtotheothersideforanotherlook,repeatingtheprocessseveraltimes.Asalways.Allhehadtodowaslookatthewaythepiecesofwoodwerebiobeginhavialimagesofthesubtlestmovementoftherisingflames,thewayasculptorimagiheposeofafigurehiddeninalumpofstone.

    Miyaketookhistime,butoncehehadeverythingarraohissatisfa,henoddedasiftosaytohimself,That’sit:perfeext,hebunchedupsheetsofneerthathehadbroughtalong,slippedthemthroughthegapsatthebottomofthepile,andlitthemlasticcigarettelighter.Junkotoarettesfromherpocket,putoneinhermouth,andstruckamatarrowinghereyes,shestaredatMiyake’shunchedbadbaldihiswasit:theo-stoppingmomentofthewholeprocedure.Wouldthefirecatch?Woulditeruptingiantflames?

    Thethreestaredinsilehemountainofdriftwood.Thesheetsofneerflaredup,roseswayinginflamesforamoment,thenshriveledaout.Afterthattherewasnothing.Itdidn’twork,thoughtJunko.Thewoodmusthavebeeerthanitlooked.

    Shewasonthevergeoflosinghopelumeofwhitesmokeshotupfromthepile.Withnowindtodisperseit,thesmokebecameanunbrokenthreadrisingstraighttowardthesky.Thepilemusthavecaughtfiresomewhere,butstilltherewasnosignofflames.

    Noonesaidaword.EvealkativeKeisukekepthismouthshuttight,handsshovedincoatpockets.Miyakehunkereddownonthesand.Junkofoldedherarmsacrossherchest,cigaretteinhand.Shewouldpuff