How Things have Chang'd ❤ Ben Chang

4

"Verena! I told you I was on to something. Look," Chang opened up the boxes he had brought in earlier. It was full of hundreds of the matchbooks he found earlier.

"I see you took my advice. Maybe went a little overkill," I groaned. This room was already small enough as is, but now adding a bunch of fire code violations.

"Getting the match books shipped to me the same day wasn't easy. I had to pay the company money. I used Nunez's card. He'll thank me at the detective awards," he mumbled to himself, quickly opening and tossing matchbooks around the room.

"Chang, you're scaring me. Please. Tell me what's going on," I pleaded with him to answer me.

"Not now, Veronica. I have work to do."

He spent hours cutting up newspaper articles, pinning them to the corkboard on the wall. He began running string between the articles and various other items he began pinning up. As soon as he had a few connections, he would tear them down.

The only thing that stayed up consistently was that damn matchbook.

"I think a music break would help you clear your head. Let your detective skills reset," I suggested, watching as he paced the room. He shot a glare over to me, his eyes quickly softening as he realized it was me he was looking at.

"You're right. I wanted to play this new song for you," he nodded, pulling out a saxophone from behind some boxes. He began playing a song that was chilling, yet enchanting. It made me feel like I was in the midst of an epic investigation.

"That was beautiful, Chang. You have a real talent for music," I said, trying to show my admiration for his dedication.

"That was nothing. Now, silence. I think I know what I must do," he demanded, sprinting up to the corkboard. He pinned 3 more items on the board and ran the red yarn over them.

Along with the matchbook, he had a Greendale brochure, a basketball player, and an article about a child who won a fishing derby.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God! Am I crazy? Or am I on the verge of something?" he asked, staring at the intricate web of details.

He began whispering to himself as he stroked his chin, "My mind reeled with thoughts, voices, stand up premises: Why don't they just make tires out of pavement so you can drive on anything? What's up with buttons? What would happen if Nicholson was a gynecologist?" he paused, giggling to himself.

"There was something there. I need a notepad. And maybe a blazer," he grabbed his flashlight and quickly left the room. As he left, the red yarn fell to the floor and rolled into a hidden, open flame.

I tried to scream for his, or anyone's help, but I felt myself stuck. I couldn't make a sound. What was that old saying?

If a tree falls in the forest and no one's around, does it make a sound?

It doesn't, if it applies to fires.

The sound of papers crumbling into ash filled the room as the smell of charred wood accompanied it. Smoke clouded my vision, the ash staining my sides as I sat frozen in terror. I couldn't move. I could only accept my doomed fate, to be turned to ash as the room was overtaken by flames.