I answered the door. It was Max, a second grader with pink hair. She was selling girl scout cookies.

Sorry, no cash, I said.

I have lots of imaginary friends, said Max.

Oh, really? I feigned interest.

One’s named Michelle. Michelle Obama! she blurted out, laughing.

I laughed, too. Max said she was homeschooled with her sister.

Were they best friends? I asked.

Sibling rivalry.

That’s normal, I assured her.

Or maybe it’s PARANORMAL! she said, making spooky noises.

If she’s a ghost, I replied.

Max nodded thoughtfully.

Well, I said, trying to conclude our interaction, it’s like my grandfather always told me.

Yes? said Max.

I looked at her blankly.

To be honest, I explained, he didn’t say much. The old man had a hard life. Never had a dad himself. I guess that means I never had a great-grandfather, I said, choking up. Hey, maybe I’ll buy a box after all. How much?

Max seemed nervous suddenly.

Sorry, she said. All out.

I thought you were selling girl scout cookies.

I was, said Max. They’re gone.

Gone?!

Gone, said Max, staring into the distance with a mix of sadness and longing. Destroyed in a fire the day of the Port Arthur Flood—or was it the night of the Ludvigsen child’s disappearance? Anyway, it happened many years ago in the town of Tick Bite, where grandma and grampa lived. That was before Danny got his legs blown off in the war. Everything changed when he got back. Grandma blamed grampa for Danny’s injuries. Grampa became depressed. Danny got into painkillers. There were terrible fights every night. It wasn’t long before grampa and grandma split, grandma going to Florida with Danny, where she dedicated herself to his care, leaving grampa in Tick Bite.

I don’t get it, I said. Who are you related to? Did Danny have a sibling?

That’s not the point, said Max.

What’s the point then?

The point is a heartbreaking story of grief and addiction set against the backdrop of a devastating foreign war. It’s about small-town folks, the burdens of history, and the chance for redemption in the darkest of seasons.

And the fire?

The fire? said Max.

The one that got the cookies, I reminded her.

Oh, that, she said. I didn’t mean a literal fire. It was more of a metaphor—the flame of time that warms the cockles even as it cooks our hearts inside our chests.

Hey, what’s that!? I interrupted.

Max was holding a thin mint.

This? she said. Grampa gave it to me just before succumbing to his injuries from the blaze.

I thought you said the fire wasn’t real.

It wasn’t, said Max. This is less a cookie than a bittersweet reminder of what was lost, a minty memento mori of a gooey, granulated past.

I’ll give you ten bucks for it, I said.

Sold, said Max.