We had coated the walls with Patrix and could hear in the streets the gasoline children running wild. When I looked out the window I saw a little boy with blonde hair pouring dozens of little liquid circles in our front yard. He moved the rusty barrel like watering plants. Crouched in the corner, Franny asked me what I saw and I told her nothing. Gasoline children in the street used orange plastic pistols and shot birds while the one known as Horgan lit wads of gasoline soaked toilet paper that burned purple and through a metal tube he pressed to his lips Horgan spit-shot the now downed birds. “You see something,” said Franny coming from her corner. “I see something on fire from here flapping in the street.” They moved. I watched the pack of gasoline children study the circles in our front yard. Horgan approved each one by way of nodding and patting the smaller children on the shoulder. Some had metal canisters on their back that held gasoline and when they got low the gasoline sloshed inside and the smallest children lost their balance. “Are they coming in?” asked Franny. “I can see their heads.” I told her they couldn’t come in, never could, and the house had its morning covering of Patrix that I applied myself when the sun was still down, the gasoline children asleep in the streets. After Horgan approved each circle he lit them on fire, Franny screamed, and the gasoline children ran away in giggles through the smoldering burnt-out suburbs. Through the ignited circles, in the near distance, I saw the children douse a man who thought it was safe to leave his home but I didn’t watch long enough to see him go up. Six circles burned to black in our front yard of once bright green grass. What it meant, I had no idea, but every house in the neighborhood had this six-circle marking and most of those people were gone now. When Franny came to the window, she pointed to the black circles and I said it would be okay. In the far distance, something with arms was on fire, and it ran.