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splinters of wood on the glowing coals. “I keep her tamped down during the day,” the old man said. “You didn’t see any smoke, did ya?”
    “Nope,” Tre replied as the kindling burst into flames.
    “Good, ‘cause I don’t need any trouble. I hope you like elk chili, ‘cause that’s what we’re having. We’ll have a drink first.”
    Tre didn’t like the taste of alcohol and never used it for anything other than a disinfectant, but he could tell that the drink was important to Bob, so he let his host pour a dollop of amber liquid into a metal cup. “There you go,” Bob said as he handed it over. That’ll fix what ails ya.”
    Tre forced a smile and pretended to take a sip. “So what do you think?” Bob demanded.
    “It’s good,” Tre lied, “
real
good.”
    The old man took a swig and grinned. “You got that right.”
    The fire crackled as Bob threw some more wood on it. Tre saw that a makeshift mattress and sleeping bag were laid out on one of the benches that surrounded the fireplace. That made sense. Bob could keep a fire going during most of the night and let it die down at about three a.m. Having stoked the fire, Bob turned his attention back to Tre. “You don’t talk much, do ya?”
    Tre forced a smile. “I don’t have much to say.”
    Bob seemed to consider that. “Most people talk too much. Not me, though. I’m a listener.” Tre nodded and pretended to sip his drink.
    “You’re black,” Bob said accusingly, as if Tre had done something wrong.
    “Brown.”
    “Black, brown, it’s the same thing.”
    Tre shrugged. “If you say so.”
    “I do. Black people caused the war.”
    “India attacked Pakistan, they responded, and China got involved.”
    “And all of them people are black, right?”
    “No.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes.”
    The old man considered that. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You weren’t round then. I was, but I don’t remember it. How old are you anyway?”
    Tre was seventeen but knew that divulging his actual age might put him at a disadvantage. “I’m twenty.”
    “I envy you,” Bob said feelingly. “I’m sixty-seven, near as I can make out, and everything hurts.” Tre couldn’t think of anything to say. Most lives were shorter now. Very few people made it to sixty, much less sixty-seven.
    “Enough talking,” Bob said. “Time to eat.” And with that he went over to pull an improvised swing arm out into the open. A fire-blackened cast-iron pot was dangling from it, and as Bob removed the lid, a mouthwatering odor wafted into the air. Tre took the opportunity to pour his drink into what had been a planter.
    “I use chopped elk, onions, tomato sauce, kidney beans, chili powder, and brown sugar,” Bob said. “I used to add cumin but ran out. There you go,” the old man said as he ladled some brown brew into a plastic bowl. “Tuck into that.”
    Tre accepted the bowl and a dirty spoon. The chili smelled delicious, but his mother had taught him not to eat until she sat down. And she taught him something else, too, what she called street smarts, even if he didn’t spend much time on the streets. “Be careful what you eat, son . . . and always think about who’s giving it to you. We live in troubled times.”
    That’s why Tre waited to make sure that Bob was going to eat from the same pot. Once he did, Tre figured the chili was safe to eat. And it was good. Very good. The bowl was empty three minutes later. Bob smiled knowingly. “Good, huh?”
    “Very.”
    “Would you like some more?”
    Tre extended his bowl. “Yes, please.”
    Bob served up a refill, and as Tre went to work on his second helping of chili, the older man peppered him with questions. Where was he from? Where was he headed? And what had he seen along the way?
    Tre answered the first two questions with lies but tried to answer the third as honestly as he could. That was the least he could do to repay Bob’s openhanded generosity. “There isn’t much to see. I try