When my eyes refocused, the lighter was shaking, still inches above the line of vodka. 'Concentrate.' I drew in a lungful of smoke and blew it at my shaking right hand like a shaman exorcising a demon. I moved my head down next to the floorboards in order to watch the miracle up close. The summoning is always the most exciting part. People carry flame around and use it every day but only a few ever realize its potential to consume and rage like a monster.

I slowly moved the lighter closer to the edge of the narrow wet trail of vodka. I love to summon the monster. The monster that brings the truth back over bridges from the past, the monster that eats little boys, the monster that brings deliverance. I moved the lighter even closer, beckoning it until it came. When the distance to the floor was close enough not to cause injury, the little flickering sprite in my hand leaped from the lighter to the floor and began to run along the length of the inch wide strip. It had been yellow in my hand but turned blue within a faint yellow outline when it hit the floor and started running. It reached the large puddle and flashed a brilliant blue, lighting up the entire second floor before running silently down each of the long fingers. The room began to fill with light, it was coming.

I got to my feet for a better look at it. It ran out to the end of each finger and hesitated, still flashing brilliant electric blue around the room. Then slowly, so slowly I almost couldn't see it, it began to creep outside the lines of vodka onto the methanol and wax coated floorboards. I could feel it coming to life. The flames went from blue to light orange as it burned through the vodka and caught on the accelerants. It was spreading slower than I anticipated, but it was spreading. And then like a miracle, it was there in the room with me. It got up on its knees and grabbed hold of the center post next to the point of origin. The tiny flames licked at the wood and then jumped up a notch, inching ever upward. It can do its work once it gets up on its feet and starts moving around. I found this out the first time I summoned it.

My last week in Minnesota, another disembodied memory hit me. It was stronger than all the others and was different in that it couldn't be controlled. And it still intrudes into my current life powerfully and often enough to demand satiation. It happened in Macon, Georgia in 1976. He was a young boy named Bobby Lynn Murray. I didn't inherit many memories from Bobby, but this one, seen through a child's eyes, is the strongest of any of the three lives worth.