I’m reaching in with my bare hands. I’m grabbing whatever little scraps I can even as the fire licks my wrists and melts the hair on the back of my hands. The pieces of paper are curling up, disintegrating to the touch, floating away as burning embers.

“No,” I cry stupidly. “No, no, come back. No.”

Then I’m chasing floating pieces of fire around the back yard, as my forearms burn and my legs wobble unsteadily, and suddenly for the first time, it comes back to me: sound.

You never forget the sounds of prison.

And I hear prison sounds right now, coming from the other side of the yard.

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My hair is on fire. I don’t notice it at the time, and that’s probably what saves my neighbor’s life: me, tearing around to the front of the house, my arms waving wildly while my hair begins to spark bright orange flames.

I come careening around the corner and three guys look up at once.

“Aidan,” the first one says stupidly. His name is Carlos; I recognize his voice immediately: he works at the garage.

Then they simultaneously glance down at the black heap on the sidewalk. “Oh shit,” the second guy says.

“But if he’s Aidan,” the third guy starts, clearly not the sharpest tool in the box. He has his booted foot on the downed man’s back, and he’s bent over with his right arm drawn back, captured mid-punch.

I realize at that moment that I’m still holding the Maker’s Mark bottle, so I do the sensible thing and smash the bottom on the corner of Mrs. H.’s vinyl-sided house. Then I hold the jagged remains above my head, and hyped up on cheap whiskey and unrequited love, I launch into the fray, screaming like a banshee.

Three black-clad figures scatter, Carlos leaping out to an early lead, his arms pumping. Bachelor number three proves once again to be slow and stupid. I catch him across the upper arm with my impromptu weapon, and he screeches like a cat as I draw blood.

“Shit, shit, shit,” guy number two keeps saying. I jab him in the side. He jumps clear. I slash down and catch part of his thigh. “Carlos,” he’s screaming now. “Carlos, Carlos, what the fuck?”

I’m wild. I’m drunk and pissed off and tired of being a doormat in the game of life. I’m swinging at Stupid Slow Guy, I’m slashing at Screeching, Oh Shit Guy. I’m going nuts and the only thing that saves them is that I’m the world’s worst brawler when I’m sober, let alone when I’m drunk. I’m all fire and no focus.