I must make a home for the sparks, he thought. There had to be a soft and incredibly fine nest for the sparks. But this time one spark fell on one small hair of dry bark-almost a thread of bark-and seemed to glow a bit brighter before it died. He struck and a stream of sparks fell into the bark and quickly died. As an afterthought he threw in the remains of the twenty-dollar bill. Then he went back into the shelter and arranged the ball of birchbark peelings at the base of the black rock. He pulled and twisted bits off the trees, packing them in one hand while he picked them with the other, picking and gathering until he had a wad close to the size of a baseball. They seemed flammable, dry and nearly powdery.
Brian plucked some of them loose, rolled them in his fingers.
Where the bark was peeling from the trunks it lifted in tiny tendrils, almost fluffs.
