The Firebug of Balrog County by David Oppegaard

isn’t?”
    â€œNot if you’re paying attention.”
    â€œWell … shit.”
    â€œYep.”
    Katrina handed me the brandy. I took another nip and returned the bottle. A gust of wind rustled the loose paper on the car’s floor and carried the smell of wood smoke.
    â€œI blame my mother. She’s a vegetarian and made us all vegetarians, too. I probably didn’t get enough iron during crucial developmental phases.”
    â€œIs she as pretty as you?”
    â€œPrettier.” A tiny smile hooked the corner of Katrina’s mouth. “Why, Mack? You sweet on me?”
    I closed my eyes and let the sunset burn itself into my brain. Everything turned red then gold.
    â€œSweet,” I said, “as honey pie.”
    Katrina slapped my arm, sloshing brandy onto the sleeve of my T-shirt. “See? Fucking snake.”
    â€œI am not a snake, madam,” I said. “I’m totally warm-blooded.”
    â€œYeah right. You’re a youngin’ snake, Mack. A snake in training. I bet you’re thinking about sexing me up right now. You’d probably love to turn me into your little fuck doll, wouldn’t you?”
    The golden light behind my eyelids turned a spotty purple. I rubbed my eyes and turned to look at Katrina. I wondered if she had some kind of mental disorder or if this fuck-doll talk was just her friendly way of passing the time. It occurred to me that she probably had her own dark shit going on. She was voluntarily hanging out with me, after all. That couldn’t be a healthy sign.
    A cow lowed in the field.
    A second cow lowed back from a point farther away.
    â€œWell, I don’t think he’s coming,” Katrina said, taking a final pull from the bottle and emptying it. “Old MacDonald isn’t taking his cows back home tonight. He’s probably sitting with Ma and Junior at the kitchen table right now, enjoying an overcooked pork chop doused in cream of mushroom soup.”
    She capped the bottle and tossed it over her shoulder. I leaned forward, studying the cows in their darkening field.
    â€œIt’s a nice evening,” I said. “He probably leaves them out on nights like this.”
    â€œLike camping, but for cows.”
    â€œWhy not? The cows like to see the stars, too.”
    A grasshopper flew up and landed on the windshield. The insect and I studied each other through the glass while Katrina shifted in her seat and groaned.
    â€œOh man. I think you’re going to have to drive us back to town, Mack-Attack. I’m done tuckered.”
    She burped and I laughed.
    The grasshopper flew away.

    As soon as I pulled us out onto the road, Katrina slumped against the passenger window and fell asleep. She made little snoring noises, cartoonish high whistlings that sounded like a child pretending to be asleep. It took me a half-hour to find a road I recognized and another twenty minutes before I was certain I’d pointed us in the right direction. Along the way we passed through a small Amish area that was pitch black except for the Bug’s headlights and the eerily beautiful kerosene lantern light that shone from the sprawling homes of the Amish themselves. I shook Katrina’s shoulder so she could see the houses and she asked me if she was dreaming. I told her yes, she was, and let her fall back asleep.

The History Test
    T he siege continued and Mom kept chugging along. By the start of my freshman year of high school our family had grown used to how thin she was, how little she could eat with her reduced stomach, and how determined she was not only to keep on living but to participate in the world. On good days, she’d have one of us fill up R 2 O 2 from the main oxygen tank and carry it out to the van for her and then she’d drive into Thorndale by herself to go shopping.
    Mom was five-nine. As her weight dipped below one hundred pounds, then below ninety, her face hollowed out and her bones rose up from