Fires of Our Choosing

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THE DAY AFTER his brother left the house for good, Marty Hanson picked out the smallest boy in his sixth grade class and waited until the boy was alone. He approached him, telling him that he’d found a dead dog decomposing in a far corner of the school’s courtyard. The boy, who was new at the school and whose name Marty could not remember, stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, nearly to the elbows, and said, “So?” He was looking at a dandelion near his sneaker’s toe.

“‘So?’” Marty said, staring at the boy. “So I dare you to come over and have a look.”

The boy kept his eyes trained on the ground, his head tilted forward. Marty saw the cowlick in the boy’s hair. Probably that morning his mother had tried to comb it down with a wet brush, Marty thought.

“I knew you were a pussy. Jimmy Dinuzio told me so.” Marty had seen the two hanging around.

“Jimmy didn’t say that.”

“Whatever,” Marty said. He began to turn away. Before he’d taken two full steps he heard the boy say, “Where is it?”

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