The old man struck a match and breathed in the sulfur and smoke. Then he dropped it to the ground, onto the stack of gasoline-soaked rags at his feet.
"Off you go," he whispered.
He backed off and struggled to bend over and pick up his cane. Flames flickered and followed the trail of rags which lead along the soft sand and dirt path up to the wooden cabin. He gripped the cane with white knuckles and dug its black rubber base into the ground. Soon the fire had jumped onto the door and wooden panels alongside, both also liberally sprinkled with gasoline.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he rubbed in-between his thumb and forefinger before letting it flutter to the ground.
"Goodbye."
He turned and walked to the road. Behind him, the house sizzled and cracked in the inferno.
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