Someone's son died in a structure fire, he was 39. His parents were out of town and he was cooking meth, ATF detectives confirmed.
“I think I found him!” I hollered to my friend.
We found the victim by the back bedroom window, supine, legs curled beneath him as if falling back during prayer. I slammed the fork end of my trash hook into his chest not realizing his body was under the mound of charred rubbish I was digging. It was a hollow thump, like puncturing a watermelon.
His eye sockets were empty, staring at a ceiling that's no longer there. His gaping jaw swallowed a 2,000 degree concoction of carbon monoxide, phosgene and cyanide, closing his trachea, initiating the brain to release enough adrenaline to endure the last few seconds of his skin boiling.
A late spring breeze replaced the smoke and the off gassing plastics with a scent of sweet grass and fresh cut hay. It was a gorgeous morning, just hot enough to feel like summer. Longhorn cattle milled by property fence a few meters away and deer in the pasture far behind the house looked in our direction then returned to grazing. Four little birds chased off a grackle. It squawked and flew away. We had barbecue brisket for lunch.