Father

“Bend it all up into a tight ball just the way I’ve always shown you.” Jack nodded at the dried mix of grasses in Cole-boy’s hands. “Like a little nest.”

It was the night before — sixteen or so hours until Jack was to leave for the elder retreat. 

Cole grunted as the kindling bent and snapped between his fingers. “It’s kinda hard with it being so brittle.”

“Doesn’t have to be perfect.” Jack took it from him, arranging it just outside the tepee of stacked wood in their metal fire ring. “You have your flint?”

Cole reached in the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled it out. 

“Go ahead.” Jack nodded at the kindling.

Cole struck the flint, making a sputter of sparks. It took several tries before the little mess of brush caught the flames. It instantly burned to a crisp — all before Cole could shove it under the wood.

“What?” He stared at it. “Why did it do that? It’s never done that before.”

“That’s how dry it is out here.” Jack gazed around their backyard. “That’s why you always wanna be careful in a drought. If our grass caught fire…” He nodded at the woods. “Those trees and everything around us would suffer.”

“Doesn’t wildfire bring about new growth though?”