Signal Fire
    Bob Thurber
The night watchman on the roof drops his cigarette into the alley behind my father's restaurant, just missing the grease barrel, exploding sparks against the screen door where I'd be standing, looking up, if I hadn't climbed the fire escape to bring him coffee.

"You're a special kind of woman, Rose," he says, and I blush, fingering my name tag, shaking my hair loose beneath the moon.

Bridge of Rope

    Bob Thurber
In time, given the opportunity, nature reclaims what it can. The patch of jungle land behind my father's house is no different, our childish makeshift bridge no exception. All along the path are places where twenty years before my brothers and I had cut wide openings; now an overgrowth of thick vines had wound several times in and around the narrow bridge. The vines had closed like a knot, pinching the ropes, popping the wood so that many planks were standing or leaning at odd angles; around them a dense growth had formed and swelled into a green barrier. We hacked for hours. We worked in shifts. Our baby brother was dead. In memory of him we fastened safety lines to our belts and swung from high heaven.

In Posse: Potentially, might be ...