Saturday night my family gathered at my sister’s farm. It was almost midnight, but that didn’t stop us from lighting the bonfire. We ate marshmallows, uniformly charred on the outside until perfection, laughed, roasted apples in the coals just for the heck of it, threw said roasted apples at each other, and had this conversation:
Me: “Daddy, is there somewhere on the farm you wouldn’t mind broken glass?”
Dad (with a gleam in his eye): “Why?”
Me: “I want to make Molotov cocktails.”
Dad: “Yes! As long as I get to help.”
I love my family. Who else encourages literary career exploration through improvised incendiary weapons?