Twisted ties
The sky hung low with a dusky orange glow as Ronnie and I sprinted toward the rusted barrels near the fence. The cheers behind us rose like a wave, feeding the chaos that buzzed through my blood. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t stop. We unscrewed the caps, tilted the canisters, and started pouring gasoline into the air—recklessly, wildly. Like it was a kind of prayer. Or a dare.
The fumes wrapped around us, sharp and dizzying. My throat burned. My eyes watered. But still, we kept going.
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