THE MAIN SQUARE of Boston had a large, palatial Edwardian-style home at its center, something like the famous painted ladies in San Francisco. This was surrounded by a number of large oaks, from which dangled ribbons and wooden swings, probably put there by the mayor and his many unruly children. I had boarded the T across the river in Charlestown and saw the city as the train passed over the Charles River. Esmeralda was sitting in the train that September morning, along with some other young woman from the Academy. Esmeralda Kask, whose Estonian parents had named her after a character in a Venezuelan soap opera, was wearing a corduroy jacket. Her potato brown hair was pulled back, so that her eyes could only better reflect the blue from the sky and river and the white from the clouds over the bay.

She was sitting there listening to the stories of some stylish Japanese man, laughing at every motion of his body or every hint of a joke. He was maybe 30 years old, his dark hair was cut almost like John Lennon’s on the cover of A Hard Day’s Night. Probably an artist, I thought. Or a bioinformatician. Esmeralda’s gems of eyes did not stray from the handsome Japanese. I walked by her, changing my seat, with the hope she might take notice of my existence. There I sat in the middle of the train, the part that turns, where the seats are less comfortable, listening to the hum of their conversation. Each mirthful laugh of hers only hurt me more.

At the center of Boston, by the Edwardian mayor’s residence, we all disembarked. I suppose we were near Beacon Hill, or an associated hill. Copp’s Hill? Was there a Faneuil Hill nestled in those bumpy streets somewhere? Esmeralda and her friend disappeared into the crowds, I could see her put her headphones on as she sauntered away, hands in her pockets. The handsome Japanese walked toward the business district. Then I saw him take out his phone and talk to someone, but then grow outraged, shouting, “Five minutes late? Nobody told me!” This was followed by rapid-fire bursts of obscenities, until he threw himself on the ground and his body exploded in a puff of white smoke and crackling fire. People began running after that.

“Come quick,” a woman of Boston said, motioning to me. She was dressed up like a British postal worker from the time of the Second World War, and had her blonde hair tied back in a thick, golden braid. “He seems to have spontaneously combusted!” she said. “Run! Others might start to combust! It could cause a chain reaction!” The British postal worker easily outpaced me as I ran up the hill, passing by a familiar bookstore, one I had visited every time.

My pace slowed though as I reached the edge of the square, even though we were all engulfed in a gray haze. I wondered why I just couldn’t be bothered to run away from things anymore. There was no immediacy to my flight. Maybe I didn’t care if I would be spontaneously combusted that day? If it didn’t happen on that day, it could have happened on any other. All I could think about was Esmeralda Kask and how she had ignored me. Why did she do that?

My running slowed to a half-hearted jog.

Down a street, I went into a building, climbed up a flight of old stairs. This happened to be the studio of a popular area radio station. At once, I was led to a desk where the disc jockey sat opposite me, asking me about the blast, what I had seen, what I had heard. I told him about the train over the Charles River, my encounter with Esmeralda Kask, her affinity for the handsome Japanese. “It seems he had some kind of meltdown because he was late,” I told the man. “And it caused him to spontaneously combust.” I stared out the window behind him, I could see the rooftops of Boston and the smoke rising up in its old-timey streets. Had I caused all of that?