barbeque (7)

“It was Dad’s thing,” he said finally. “Not mine.” Marcus gave a dry laugh. “That’s what I said, too. Until it wasn’t.” By late afternoon, the kids were sticky and sunburned, the women had retreated into gossip, and the men were nursing beers like medals.

Jacob wandered back toward the pit, the place where everything had always started. Uncle Ro stood over it, tongs in hand, eyes squinting through the smoke. “You’re standing wrong,” he said without turning. Jacob blinked. “What?”

“You stand like a guest. This pit don’t need guests.” He handed the tongs over, just like that. No ceremony. No announcement.