Fighting the stiffness and quaking of his muscles, Jack stands, trying not to step on any of the faces that have inched toward him on the slick stone floor. The mouths of the faces are speaking, but at first it’s all chatter, as if they were speaking in tongues. Then he can make out his father in-law telling him, “You fucked me, Jack, you really fucked me.” His mother-in-law just shakes her head. Says, “We expected so much better of you, Jack.” He presses his hands over his ears. Warmth floods the side of his face. Blood drips from the gash made by the gas can. Running from the shed. Out in the distance, his father removes the can’s cap, starts sloshing the liquid onto the side of a house. It’s the house he was raised in, the house he ran from only moments ago. His father enters the house. Jack follows. Inside, the thick whiff of fumes. His father is dousing everything inside: couch, TV, pictures, walls—everything his mother has worked to provide for herself and Jack. Coming at him, his father swings the can again. A repeat of before. Jack is slow to react. Gets knocked down again. His father then pulls a lighter from his pocket. Thumbs the rough Hot Wheel–size striker. Sparks up a flame, drops the Zippo onto the floor, and everything ignites in bright orange heat. Fighting to get his feet under him, Jack finally gives it up and crawls on all fours. Coughing and gagging. Reaching the wall, ripping curtains from the window, he levers himself up by the sill, swings the drape, trying to beat out the flames. But they have taken over the room. Covering his face with his forearm, he’s spitting smoke. Runs from the burning house. Backing away as citrus flames climb into a sky that is a mound of cotton-candy glow, when a weighty arm reaches over Jack’s shoulder. It’s his father, laughing. His face is dusky with soot. He has a cigarette between his lips, coal on the end a bright orange-red, and he pulls it from his lips, blows smoke. Fixes Jack with eyes that glow hotter than his cigarette and says, “Can’t run away from your demons, son. Eventually, you gotta face them or burn that shit to the fucking ground.” Jack returns the hard stare to his father, who laughs again. Jack tries to pull away from the embrace, but his father’s arm is locked around his neck and shoulders. The cigarette dangles from his lip as he tells Jack, “Don’t try to be strong, Jack. You’re a weak man. You were always weak. No amount of money will ever change that, son.”