We lined up. Facing us on defense were drunks. The dog, my constant companion, trotted up and—when Mongo bent over to hike the tasseled blue pillow—sniffed between Mongo’s legs. I tugged Gunner out of the way, stuck my hands where the dog’s face had been—it felt warm between Mongo’s legs—and called:

“Hike.”

It’s hard to say what happened after that. Mongo shoved the pillow into my hands and I faked the handoff to Angus. Angus ran off and vanished directly into Eighteenth Century Novels while Topper bolted down the rug. Nick fell down and Gregory crunched Bob, and you could hear an audible crack like vertebrae snapping when Bob collapsed in a heap. I noticed Lester standing by the sidelines with an ice chunk in one hand and my whiskey in the other, so I zigzagged over and exclaimed, “Lester, the ankle got better by itself! Isn’t that remarkable? I won’t be needing the ice! Thanks anyway.” I ran in place while Mongo blocked for me and Lester held out the whiskey. I grabbed this from Lester, drank, then handed back the empty glass and returned to the game refreshed. Right away I could see that there were too many things happening at once. Nick had picked himself up and made a beeline down the stacks, then gotten involved in an argument with several twins. Topper had made good progress down the carpet and was darting back and forth, back and forth, leaping over Virgil, leaping over Barry, trying to get in the open. Frank and Joe butted heads and Frank toppled backward. Gunner sniffed Bob. Topper plowed into a coffee table and there was a disturbing crash. The chandeliers blinked; visibility was a problem. I was standing beneath the water stain, and I looked up at this, and suddenly—just as I was getting positioned to lob the pillow to Topper standing tall on the broken table, excitedly waving his arms—suddenly there was Father, up in the lights, looking incredibly huge and damp on our decomposing ceiling, puffing his cigarette and staring straight down at me.

Father’s mouth opened. Leaking black water poured from the ceiling as he commanded:

“Run.”

I tucked that pillow under my arm, stepped left to avoid being tackled by Clay, spun to the right for no reason at all, and tore off down the carpet. Far in the distance were the African masks, and I suppose I was aiming to race down and snag one off the wall, put it on, and wear it as a helmet. From every side, men charged after me. “Kill the man with the ball!” a voice shouted, and I knew that I was doomed. I could hear—and feel, through our rotting floorboards—my brothers’ dozens of thundering, running, stomping shoes. It seemed to me as I fled my brothers that it would be good if we could, at some point, get together, stop trying to kill each other, and find Father’s ashes—take care of that urn, so that these inconvenient, late-night visitations might not take place, and people would not have to get hurt.