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A neighbor spies us lighting firecrackers down in the gulley. He’s scrounging for something in the grass. “We’re lighting fireworks off in our yard at dusk. Come on up. Bring what you got left.” An hour later Avery and I trek up the hill to find a dozen or so adults crowded onto a front yard watching twice as many kids light a variety of roadside fireworks. I’ve walked up with a beer in one of those beach cozies, surprised to find the whole adult scene booze-free. It makes me feel self-conscious. Avery is happy, though. He joins a phalanx of twelve year olds and shows off his firecracker stash. The crowd moves to another yard when someone confesses to having illegal fireworks they hope to shoot off their porch. Indeed, a gallery of fireworks burst into the sky, loud bangs and blooms of saturated color streaming momentarily in the sky, drawing the requisite Oohs and Aahhs from the crowd. One of the neighbors approaches—a pretty, friendly woman I know from my dog walks. We jam fingers into our ears and try to chat around the explosions. “What kind of theater class is that?” I ask. “I want to read your novel when it comes out,” she counters. “If it comes out,” I remind her. Our talk drifts back to fireworks and kids. She introduces me to her father, retired, who writes books and self-publishes. I do my best to extract myself from the conversation without offending the old man. I share a few passive phrases with my neighbors, though no one is trying too hard to connect. Fine by me. Walking home with a happy Avery, dark and wet from a rain, I am glad to have fulfilled my dad duty without anyone losing an eye, without pissing anyone off or making a fool of myself.