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why he did not want to feel; it was clearly dangerous.
    â€œYes,” he said.
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    DAN NOTICED FORREST SANDERS, THE aging Boy Scout, puttering around his garden in the evening. Forrest lifted a hand in greeting but did not have time to talk. Dan wanted to talk to him privately in the Boy Scout office; his desire to belong to something, to be welcomed into this seemingly happy group, felt too precious to reveal across the wire fence. He noticed when Forrest gunned his pickup truck and drove off wearing his Scout uniform: It appeared to be Mondays. The next Monday, Dan waited a few minutes, got into his car, and followed him.
    He reached the office at 8:00 AM, when it opened. He stood for a moment, gazing at the building. The sign outside the building said: TODAY’S WORDS: SCOUTS LIVE UP TO THEM! BRAVE CHEERFUL CLEAN REVERENT OBEDIENT
    Forrest was restocking Scout navy caps on a shelf. He looked up.
    â€œHowdy, neighbor,” he said. “Up early.”
    â€œEarly to bed, early to rise,” said Dan, which was the sort of thing he imagined Forrest might like to hear. He looked around the room; the Scout items, in their outdoorsy innocence, seemed to be mocking him.
    â€œHow’s your boy?”
    â€œWanted to see if I could enroll him. And to see if I could apply to be a troop assistant leader. If you need one.” He heard himself make this offer and was suddenly afraid that Forrest would turn him down. Forrest grinned as though a lever had been pressed in his head.
    â€œWhy not? Come in the back. We’ll get you the forms.”

    Dan followed Forrest to the back of the store. Forrest went to a metal desk surrounded by posters. There was a poster of a Scout leader pinning a badge to a beaming boy. There was a poster with a picture of a desk and large brown shoes. It said: Father’s Office: Where you can fix scraped knees and hurt feelings.
    â€œYour son will never forget it,” he said, gravely. “Those moments when you stand with him, as he receives his badge, as you see the firelight on his face, as you kneel beside your boy, sharpening a stick . . . the moment he looks at you and sees you there, his father. Beside him.” He looked at him. “What’s your best Scout memory, Mister Dan?”
    Dan rubbed his hands on his slacks. “Best memory,” he said. He leaned forward. “Hard to choose, Mister, ah, Forrest. Maybe when . . .” He glanced at the posters on the walls. “When my father taught me to make fire. Rubbing the sticks together. In our backyard. That spark.”
    â€œI made fire, too,” said Forrest. “I remember when a spark flew off the stick and landed on a pile of leaves. It took but a second and everything was ablaze. My poppa fell onto it and rolled. He rolled out that fire with his shoulder. One second and it was out. Let me tell you. True story.”
    â€œSounds like a great man,” said Dan; he sensed that Forrest wanted to be admired.
    â€œA giant. I’m telling you.” His voice was suddenly fierce. “Don’t even try to measure up. Don’t even think about it.”
    â€œI won’t,” said Dan, leaning back.
    â€œGood,” said Forrest. His eyes were sharp and blue, taking him in. “So. Your boy’s going to be thanking you the rest of his life for this, Mr. Dan Shine. He’s going to be a good Southern gentleman after we’re done with him.”
    â€œLet’s hope he can make a fire,” said Dan. “And put it out with his shoulder.”
    â€œAmen,” said Forrest.

Chapter Five
    THREE WEEKS INTO THE SCHOOL session, Zeb made a friend. Serena stood on the patchy wet grass outside his bungalow with her son, who held her hand with a violent, bone-crunching grip until Ryan showed up. Ryan was six years old and almost five feet tall. He was the son of a former football star and already ran with sportsmanlike grace. When Zeb saw this boy, he lit