Night Fever

When tragedy strikes a trio of movers, they raise a blazing testament of grief.

from Night Fever:

“Come with me.” Michael said. Out in the distance, beyond the dark enclosure of the crops they heard a howl, clear and sad. He led the kid to the truck and unlatched it and threw it open. The two stood looking at the dark shapes they had loaded earlier that day.
“What are we doing?” Evan asked in his usual resistant tone.
Michael shook his head and took a lunging step into the truck bed, ducking his head under the latch.
“Just help me unload.” He stepped into the cavernous inside and emerged with an armful of scrap wood, handing the load to Evan.
“Put it over there, where the shovels are.”
“Anywhere?” the kid asked.
“Anywhere. In a pile.”
When the kid came back Michael handed him pallets, then drawers, then shelves. One by one he piled them. Michael heard them bashing together. The kid came back breathing heavily. Then Michael gave him cushions, table legs, armchairs; he put them into the kid’s arms forcibly. There were no words for a long while. The kid, very gradually, had stopped speaking to conserve his breath and now there was only the sound of feet along the ground, thuds of wood, exhales. The kid came and went, but there was something in his movement Michael had not seen before.