“Don’t put that on.”

Too late. The damp cardboard began to steam at the sides and cover the encampment with a thick, acrid fog. Helen tried to poke it with her big stick. She moved it further into the flames. The wet smoke grew denser.

“Don’t poke it!”

“But it’s fun and it smells nice.”

“It’s not fun and it doesn’t smell nice. Put down the big stick.”

She grabbed another piece of cardboard. She wondered whether, if Phil could move his arms, he’d grab it off her, take her big stick, make her sit down. And then she started to smile, inside at first, at the base of the throat, until it bubbled up and lifted her mouth. And she threw another piece of soft, limp, wet cardboard it into the flames, and began to poke it with her big stick.