The pub had never been as full as it was on the night of the McKenzie fire. Whiskey and beer, drunk and spilled in equal measure, flowed freely to the patrons, drunk and riled in equal measure, but ever wary of the plank June kept under the premixes in case anyone got too unruly.

The first wisps of smoke barely ignited curiosity amongst the throng, as though even they were too distracted by the frivolity to bother the crowd with something so serious, but soon the wisps became a wall, pressing and pushing, as coughing and confusion spread through the patrons.

It was Dan Lewis (barely 46, the balloons hadn’t even made it to the outside bin) who first connected the pieces, through prescience (or a surreptitious headcount), and asked if anyone had seen the McKenzies; the mildly camouflaged panic amplified as it echoed from mouth to ear and off the plaster walls.

But soon the panic fell to silence, the path forward clear despite the thickening smoke. Neighbours (as they all were) avoided each other’s glances in tacit agreement: the McKenzies (neighbours in geography only) would manage, or not, as God saw fit. So windows were closed, cigarettes relighted, and drinks (despite June’s uncharacteristically unstable hand) refilled. And, as the fog of woodsmoke, tobacco and whiskey settled into the deepening night, the matter was forgotten.

June (née McKenzie) pulled up her coat as the bitter cold of near dawn settled, and she clicked the final lock on the pub’s back door. As expected, the old shed (had her father used it last, or her grandfather?) had been far enough off to allay suspicion. She wondered how long they’d burn and choke before it was too late.

The shed rasped a parched splinter into the breeze: it hit the wall and settled in the dry grass, its glow growing into a flame.

And as the murmurs of confusion turned into screams of terror, she turned away from the town that had been a neighbour only in geography and, family in arm, disappeared into the bush.