Mizuno, peeked inside – a man sat on a bench picking his teeth with a buck knife, wood stove blazing hungrily behind.
Come in, he said, waving with his free hand.
You don’t mind?
Lost Souls are Lost Souls.
Dad crept inside, clutching Mizuno to his chest – watched the man pick three days of dinner from between his teeth, patiently waiting for something, though he wasn’t sure what.
What’s with the mitt? he said, slamming the knife into his workbench, rattling jam jars of screws and bolts perched along the wall.
My son’s, Dad said. He has...feelings for it.
Fine-lookin’ mitt.
Yeah, Dad said. It is.
So what brought you here? the man said, spitting into a bottle.
Just...ended up here.
I know that, but what brought you here? Wife troubles? Job troubles? Owe-a-small-fortune-to-Armenian-gangsters-troubles?
Dad caught himself staring at Mizuno.
Sorry, what?
You got it bad, he said. But you’re in the right place. He put down his bottle and limped to the stove, swung the creaky door open – a blast of hot air shot like a slug. He turned and held out his hand.
Give it to me.
I...I can’t, Dad said, and the man grabbed under his arm, wrenched him to his feet, towards the open stove. He pointed inside.
Do it.
I can’t.
You must!
The panic on Dad’s face fizzled.
I bought this glove for Eric, he said, smiling with the corner of his
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