He shrugged again. “Can’t be a hero if you’re afraid of looking stupid.”
“No problem then, because I don’t want to be a hero.”
“Sure you do, Kirby. Everybody does. Down deep inside, everybody wants to be a hero.”
The older folks in town like to tell about the night Brett McGrew was born. They say the sky was clear and the moon was full, a moon that lay low on the horizon, big and round and orange, like a basketball. A giant basketball shining down on Stuckey.