The Burnt Man

A burnt man reaches his hand toward me. His arm near the bicep splits open and pink muscle shows through. He contorts his face, which then tears in places. He wants my help. – What is your name? I ask him. His esophagus is burnt away. – What is your name and where do you come from? I ask, knowing it is an absurd question, the wrong question, but a question that just comes to mind.