The wind was cold the night the man ran in through the door of the old Nacogdochian house. The temperature outside made his bones chill. Just a watery, thick, cold mess. The old stove still sat to one side of the room. He had a cigarette lighter in his pocket. Outside the door was a few splinters left over. Turning the handle on the stove, he looked inside. Putting in the pine, two pieces in the center laid out in an x, he then laid one log on the right and left of the pine. On top he put the larger of the sticks of wood. He looked around the stove one last time before he lit it to make sure nothing would catch fire. Everything he lit lasted to its last breath. Sitting on the old cold wood floor in front of it.
