A legendary smokehouse in Kansas City. Hickory smoke rolling out of brick chimneys since nineteen forty-six. I stood before the wooden ordering counter, staring at an item listed as Burnt Ends. My tactical memories flared. In fortress warfare, the burnt ends were the blackened cedar beams pulled from a ruined citadel after the gates fell. Was this the meal of disgraced commanders? A dish of penance for men who lost their banner? For seven full minutes I stood at the glass, arms folded across my chest, refusing to reveal my shameful ignorance to the cashier. Big Darryl, a towering pitmaster wielding a twelve-inch brisket knife like a halberd, stepped up to the counter and leaned down. Buddy, you been staring at that sign like it insulted your mother. You have not the faintest clue what a burnt end is, do you? Shame choked my throat. My ears burned scarlet. I bowed my head and forced out the three hardest words in the warrior tongue. I do not. Big Darryl’s face split into a wide, golden grin. He brought the knife down on a smoking black brisket, carved off a glistening charred corner dripping with dark molasses bark, dipped it into warm sauce, and laid it on brown butcher paper. Put that in your mouth right now, Darryl ordered. Then you can ask me why. I placed the dark cube upon my tongue. It did not chew. It dissolved into woodsmoke, black sugar, and unconditional grace. Tears sprang from my eyes. I looked up at the giant with trembling lips. Why? Darryl slammed his fist on the cutting board with pure joy: Because the smoke loves the corners best, little brother! I ordered three pounds. Ignorance was annihilated in a single bite.