A rusted pickup truck in the driveway. Bumperstickers on it that read, DON’T TREAD ON ME, and LIVE FREE OR DIE. A step ladder hangs off the tail with a DIXIE flag tied to it.

He sits on his riding lawnmower with a beer in his hand, steering with the other. The middle-aged man cuts the grass in a circular fashion, going back and forth across the front yard. Brown needles under a Pine tree.

The boy, not quite six, sits on the front porch, playing make-believe with his toy firetruck and Army soldiers. He points at his dad, laughs, and runs after him. The father scoops the boy up into his arms and continues mowing the yard. Rocks from a gravel driveway tossed aside by mud-caked blades of steel.

The mowing stops. He lets his foot off the gas and coasts like an airplane into the garage. The boy is laughing and smiling as Dad lifts him off his lap and tells the kid to grab him another beer.

Daddy is so proud of him. Ready for Kenny to grow up. But not too fast. He goes inside with his shadow following him. Sits down at the table. And calls his ex-wife. 

Yeah. We’re done. I’ll drop him off in a while. I said a while. Father looks at his son. Takes out a cigarette and lights it.

You shouldn’t do this, the father says.

I won’t.

Promise.

I promise.

Pinky promise? He asks the boy. Kenny nods his head. They lock fingers together. He downs another swig of Schlitz.

Let’s go.