"Miss! The old fellow who was trapped in the house last night—did they get him out?"
In the urgency of that voice, John went rigid where he stood.
"Miss." Old Mr. Harmon reached me and clasped my hand in both of his. "Yesterday, I heard you calling him Dad the whole time. How is he? He was a good man, a real good man. That wine was from me, you know..." He trailed off with a heavy sigh.
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
John cut the old man off, lunging forward and seizing him by the collar.
"Are you saying there was actually someone inside that house when it burned?!"
Old Mr. Harmon blinked, bewildered.
"Of course there was. He was screaming for help the whole time, screaming like his lungs would burst. I don't know if he—"
"Stop!"
John's voice cracked. He gripped the old man's collar tighter, his words scraping out raw and hoarse.
"Answer me. The person inside last night—how old was he? What was he wearing? What did he look like?!"
Old Mr. Harmon stared at him, confused.
"Who are you, exactly...?"
"Just answer me!!"
The old man paused for two long seconds, then spoke slowly.
"Older than me. An old fellow..."
The color drained from John's face.
I, on the other hand, finally let out a breath.