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partner, so Ken’s kid brother was therefore part of my new and very convoluted St. Nacho’s family. That would make him my brother’s business partner’s son’s brother-in-law…whatever. Everyone in Nacho’s was interconnected somehow; that’s how it is in a small town.
    At halftime I passed around salad, sandwiches, pickles, and peppers. The boys ate frozen grapes and chugged water and sports drinks. I listened to parents talk about how the season was shaping up while we watched the boys gambol around on the field. We could all see a worrisome plume of black smoke billowing toward a fairly clear sky. As the boys played, it changed color and stretched and flattened, pushed toward the east by the breeze from the ocean.
    The acrid scent—smoke and sulfur—that perfumed the air was particularly bad around the time the game finished up. I had to admit, the game was exciting—a come-from-behind squeaker decided when the Bandits scored on a goal kicked in by the one Jake had identified as the Ashton boy. Despite that, by the end of the game, we were all looking nervously at the sky.
    I stood when Jake came toward me. Very real worry clouded his features. “It’s probably nothing,” he said.
    “Yeah.”
    Jake nodded and pulled his black-and-white shirt over his head. Underneath, his own T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. “That’s exhausting, huh?”
    “They keep me hopping.”
    “There are some awesome players. That Ashton kid is really something.”
    “I think he’ll make baseball his sport. He might like soccer better, but I think he feels like he has to play baseball because his brother never got his chance.” All this and Jake still kept his eyes on the sky.
    “Let’s go by the firehouse and see if JT is there before we go home. He can tell us what happened.”
    Jake grinned at me. “Thanks. I know I’m being paranoid, but—”
    “But people you care about put it on the line every day. And it will make you feel better. I’m not an insensitive asshole, Jake. Maybe I just lost my faith. That doesn’t mean you have to lose yours.”
    “Thanks, man.” Jake very nearly brushed my shoulder with his, but I saw it coming and couldn’t help flinching out of the way.
    “Oh, sorry.” His brows drew together. “I didn’t think.”
    “It’s fine. I forget all the time. Especially just for a few seconds when I wake up in the morning. Just long enough to try to slap the Snooze button on the alarm clock or get a grip on my dick. I realize what I’ve done when—” I stopped abruptly, realizing that I’d made a promise to myself that I’d stop sharing shit like that. When would I learn?
    There’s no point in discussing chronic pain. It doesn’t make the pain go away, and people just get more uncomfortable being around you. The last thing I wanted was to be that guy , the one people avoid because they can’t stand to hear him chirp along brightly about what it’s like to live with pain.
    I was not only in pain. I was becoming a fucking pain in the ass. From what I could see the only remedy was solitude, and when forced into the company of friends, the judicious use of alcohol and lies.
    We got to my car, and Jake drove back. When we arrived—when Jake finally parked in the Bêtise parking lot, the guys were still out on the call.
    Jake put on coffee, and we shared small talk and some sweet rolls. It was another hour before the big trucks rolled back into the station, and we gave the firefighters time to get their gear off and clean up before we went over. When we did, it was obvious that all was not well.
    I’d had the chance to observe the local firefighters firsthand since Bêtise had opened. I secretly believe that was one of the reasons Jake had picked that particular location. From the tables by the front window, patrons could watch the firefighters work to maintain their equipment, toss around a football, or—since a number of them smoked—spy on them while they fed their habit. They