Write about: the rocket.
A friend of Kat's and her three kids arrived this afternoon for a visit. They'll be here until Saturday morning, so things will be a little crowded around here for the next few days. My parents are sleeping in their camper van out front, two of the kids are crashing in our guestroom, and their mom is sharing a tent in the backyard with the third.
After dinner we took them on a tour of the farm. Well, Max did. I think he's going to have a lot of fun with the boy, who at 7 is the youngest of the three children. But, you know, he'll pretty much have fun with most anybody.
Back in high school, they used to say old Benjamin Harris was faster than a rocket. He dominated every track meet he attended, never losing a sprint he competed in. The other kids knew it, too; you could see it in the way their shoulders slumped and heads dropped when they realized who they were lining up against.
I knew Benjamin well in those days. You could say we were best friends, of a sort. That's what I told people, at any rate. I heard old Benny mighta said different.
Nobody was closer to him than me, though. I can guarantee you that much. Maybe because I was smart enough to never challenge his supremacy. All the other boys were too stubborn or foolish or proud to back down.
You don't run against a rocket, man. That ain't a race you're gonna win. Any damned fool could see that.
What nobody saw coming though, not even little old me, was the day he brought an actual rocket to school and blew the whole place straight to hell...