The sound of striking the head against the back of the book, that almost metallic/wet clicking, made my insides feel hollow. And when the flame sprouted from the top of the match, that feeling deepened. I’d place the tip against a brown elm leaf or a crumpled milk carton, and as the fire slowly grew, eating at the bits of trash, I felt far away and detached, as if watching a television program through someone else’s eyes.