Sarah grabbed the rusty sledgehammer leaning by the furnace and swung at the coffin lid with everything she had. Wood exploded. Inside lay nothing but a pile of old birthday hats, the paper kind with elastic strings, soaked dark with something that used to be liquidades. Five hats. One still had a strand of blonde hair caught in the elastic. The furnace kicked on by itself, roaring like it was laughing. Every hat ignited at once, flames blue and soundless. The fire formed letters on the ceiling: “WE ALWAYS FINISH THE PARTY.” The temperature plummeted. Frost raced across the floor toward her bare feet in perfect arrows. The basement door upstairs began to splinter under tiny, furious fists. Sarah realized the sledgehammer in her hands was now wrapped in bright red “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” crepe paper that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago.
