Night Out

After confirming that our old-lady babysitter had settled into her knitting and TV watching, we tiptoed into the kitchen. Mark silently pinched a book of matches from the topmost cabinet.
In the darkened backyard, we piled dried leaves and sticks beneath the swing set. Mark then lit the matches. I knew that we risked burning down the house. Even more troubling, I pictured the babysitter storming down the side yard and finding our high-spirited faces glowing in the bonfire’s warmth.
The fire sputtered out without incident, though, and we grew cold and tired. We covered the embers with pea gravel, and then slipped noiselessly back into our bedrooms.