"This isn't a Christian thing to do!" he shouted, eyes wide in anger, his dark skin blending into the room's gloom. "You must give me more notice!". Part of my brain was still processing our conversation, which had rapidly escalated since I told my landlord I was moving out, just minutes earlier. However, another part—perhaps the ancient synapses responsible for spotting movement of predators in the undergrowth or the approach of a Fianna Fáil canvasser—was tugging my attention away. Something was wrong, as time seem to slow to a crawl. My landlord continued to harangue me, but his voice was strangely muted. I slowly looked away. Out of the corner of my eye, an orange light flickered into the darkness and the smell hit me. The curtains were on fire.