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Fourth. You didn’t ask his name. You don’t remember this until you open the car door and see your daughter, stirring under her blanket, alone in the back seat. Who is that? she asks, but when you turn around, you see only the ruins of a bonfire: scattered empty beer cans, embers glowing in a pile of ash.
Fifth. This night haunts you until you do not bleed. You look at your home; the peeling paint on the walls, the room you and your daughter share, and you don’t know whether to curse the stars, or bless them. I’ve always wanted a brother, says your daughter. The pills go into the drawer. You will make do.
Sixth. Every full moon, you and your daughter light a fire in the backyard. Your son has grown old enough to ask about his father. Before you can say anything, your daughter interrupts.
As she speaks, you watch how his shape changes, a flickering shadow in the space between the flames. A god. A monster. Another no-good man from the side of the highway. You peer into the woods, looking for the outline of a dog, a trickster. There are only glimpses of movement, out of the corner of your eye.