As they looked at each other, not knowing what to say, Fire was bubbling with anger. There was no pleasure in bringing this charade to its rightful conclusion.

“Time to go,” the fat one said.

“Thanks for the drinks, boss,” the slim one said.

Fire walked them past Ian to the door. As he watched them drive away, he felt the wad of money in his pocket grow heavier.

When he returned to the kitchen, he washed up the glasses and sat at the table. There, with his legs crossed, a glass of water in his hand, he called the commissioner’s office. He was assured that everything would be fine. How? he asked, and there was silence. He puzzled a moment and then he remembered where he was—in Jamaica, people of privilege do not consider details. Details are for minions and fools.

Fire felt strange when he hung up the phone—oddly weak when he should be feeling potent. Taking a sip of water, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes to clear his head, opening them to see the chessboard pattern of the coffered ceiling, a pattern mirrored on a smaller scale in the terra-cotta floor. With his poet’s eye, he saw in this a metaphor: life is a game of luck. Some people are pawns and some are kings.

Who decides which we will become? The answer came quickly—fate.

He took off his shoes and placed his feet up on a chair and reflected on his life. Although his family had some money and he’d been left a small inheritance by his grandfather, he’d made it on his own. He’d worked hard, first as a painter, then later as a writer, and, with the recent sale of the house in London, he was now independently wealthy by Jamaican standards. With few indulgences beyond travel, books, and music he wouldn’t have to work for the rest of his life. So in a material sense, he’d made it on his own. But had he done so in more important ways?

How much of my love of adventure is the result of my class privilege? he began to wonder. Or the ease with which I endured hard living while I pursued my art? How would I be different if I had had Ian’s parents? How much like Ian would I be? In his head he heard a term he’d used at university—lucky sperm. These were kids who were accepted because their parents were alumni. He’d won an academic scholarship. But in many ways, he was admitting now, he was a lucky sperm. His father was a well-regarded painter. His mother’s family owned a large estate. Michael Manley was his godfather. And through I-nelik he’d become friends with Marley.

Fire began to consider now how hard he would have had to work to be a failure. He had always assumed success because he’d been given the tools to succeed, so he’d never worried. Never felt intimidated by life. At Yale he’d been aware of the whiteness of the place, but his blackness and his sense of worth had been so deeply ingrained at home that he felt no sort of pressure to fit in, to stand out, or to prove any points. He realized now that this ability to be himself and love himself was something he’d taken for granted.