BENJAMIN WEBBER came outside wearing army boots with black laces undone, tongues loose and flapped at blue church socks pulled close to his knees, legs bare above the bands. They were old shoes, from Korea when he carried a gun there and shot communists from the northern part. Once Benjamin Webber said he used a flamethrower there, and burned a whole forest, and some people inside. The flamethrower took two people to carry, he said, him at the barrel and trigger, metal harness bracing both shoulders to keep the gun still, another at the back, toting the fire tank, both of them zipped burnproof coats and pants and hoods, like a spacesuit he said, or one for scuba diving. He had on flannel sleep pants cut short with scissors, bottoms frayed loose red and black string. The silver hair left on the sides of his head stuck wild from his night face against the pillow. He smoothed it some, but it stayed.

Terry was leaned at one knee beside a fire; leaves and sticks from the yard, low wet plume of smoke wound a bed spring. He pulled up hunks of grass and threw them in. He stood up when he saw his father, and thumbed the cigarette into the dark past. He spit, wiped one corner of his mouth on the back of his green jacket sleeve. He looked for the cigarette after, to see if the cherry still burnt, but nothing, only his father’s chest and face streaked with fire line the closer he got; all of him clear when he stood beside Terry and crossed his arms tight on his chest. The end of his nose, the bridge, flushed apple red, broken veins at the nostrils and cheeks, skin beneath his eyes puffed so much Terry couldn’t see the bottom lids. Benjamin Webber took a red bandanna from a pocket and put it to his nose and blew hard and high and then he did it again. He folded the cloth and went to put it back but he stopped and held it out. Terry put a hand out and shook his head.

I’m alright, he said. You can keep it.

Benjamin Webber nodded, did not speak, put the kerchief to the pocket on his sleep pants.

Are you related to the ones that invented the grills? I mean us, are we?

I’ve used one before. They’re nice.

Maybe it was your great grandfather.

Nah.

A second cousin.

Nope.

I wish it was.

Benjamin Webber did a quick nod.

I do, too, he said.

I bet they get free charcoal. Hot dogs. Marshmallows and all that.

I had a grill one time.

Did you fight Russians?

No. Koreans.

Why does that president always talk about wars with Russians?

He’s got a small pecker.

Oh.

Did you really have a blowtorch?

Yeah.

Why?

I burnt things. Houses. People. Trees.

Was your blowtorch cool to use?

No. Nothing like that is cool to use, boy

His father was convinced he should be on the soccer team. He stood there, scratched skin at his bare thighs flicked orange light, and asked Terry questions; how he felt, good or bad, sad or angry or whatever.

The night after he made a phone call, promised the coach in Echota a box of new school-colored sweatshirts, hooded or straight collared, if Terry could be on the team. The coach said, sure, fine; the team needed sweatshirts, sometimes they got cold.