barbeque (3)

Still hollering orders like a general and refusing help like a man twenty years younger. Harold Greene hadn’t believed in shortcuts, especially not when it came to brisket.

“Sixteen hours or it’s not barbecue, it’s a mistake,” he’d say, stabbing at the meat with a glint in his eye like he was daring it to disagree. Now the pit was quieter.

Someone—Uncle Ro, probably—had taken over the fire, but even from a distance, Jacob could see the smoke wasn’t rising right. It wavered like it was unsure of itself. He stepped out of the rental car, boots crunching dry grass.