“Your teacher broke the rules,” Eric’s uncle said. “He knew the new rules, but he chose to ignore them.”

His uncle prodded apart two logs in the fire pit then jerked the poker away. The logs collapsed into one another like two weary fighters desperate for rest.

“Everybody knows there’s a relentless war on manhood,” his uncle said between chews of tobacco then spit. He sat down in a worn lawn chair and sipped from a can of Miller Lite.

The fire hushed then heaved, gushing upwards.

“The second you’re anybody with ambition…who dares to bind your life to a greater purpose, a larger destiny, the world turns around and shits all over you,” he said, pulling his shirt to cover the flesh of his belly.

Eric sat on a bench opposite him, hands stuffed in his pockets, staring at the fire.

Mr. Sully, Lincoln High’s social studies teacher, had been popular. Always animated, Mr. Sully bobbed to and fro, asking questions, and considering students’ answers. Then he would walk up to the blackboard and scratch out phrases in big white letters.

“AFFIRMING THE DIGNITY OF OTHERS,” Eric remembered Mr. Sully scrawling in giant letters when discussing political revolution. Looking over the blackboard afterwards, Mr. Sully seemed entranced.

Eric loved Mr. Sully’s classes.

“Your teacher’s mistake was thinking that men like us would sit back and let the world change without us, without our say so,” his uncle groaned and then drew down his beer.

A month earlier, Mr. Sully had moderated the annual Lincoln High debate. Hundreds of students packed into the school’s gymnasium.

During closing arguments, discussion got heated. Male students sprung to their feet and shouted. A female debater decried the misogyny of the “manosphere” as a male student made lewd gestures. In closing, Mr. Sully echoed the female debater’s concerns about the “manosphere.”

A local news segment discussed the fallout, interviewing a series of grey-haired men with furrowed brows, men who reminded Eric of his uncle. Soon they started showing up at the school’s community meetings.

“Kids these days,” his uncle had said at the November meeting. “They get so confused, they start thinking up is down, down’s up. What’s worse is you—none of you teachers—steer them straight.”

Eric remembered slouching low next to his uncle and dreaming of ways to disappear. Ever since Eric’s dad died of cancer, his uncle had made a habit of peppering him with lessons about manhood while driving Eric around in his 1997 Dodge Ram.

“We’re men, Eric. Your mom’s never gonna get what that means,” Eric’s uncle said one night after picking Eric up one-hour late. He sneered when he said it, then peeled his truck away, tires squealing.

“I understand your concerns, sir,” Mr. Sully told Eric’s uncle at the community meeting. “But as a teacher I am committed to encouraging free speech in the classroom and fostering critical thinking in our students.” Mr. Sully’s pale face wore an earnest expression.

“But why did he need to lose his job?” Eric asked, turning away from the fire.

“An elitist hack, nothing more,” he barked, “obsessed with the pae-tree-arch-y” his uncle jeered, while bunny ear quoting the last word.

“Eric, we are men. Unlike women—who’re always in their feelings—we feel the facts like fire coursing through our veins,” his uncle said. “And so, when we act, the world better listen!”

His pupils engorged. The whites of his eyes receded. Flames swirled in the distance.

“Mark my word, Eric. If the world doesn’t listen, then the men will step in. Yes, they’ll burn the whole fucking thing down,” his uncle warned, pointing out at something beyond the fence.

Eric glanced over at the metal fire poker propped up against the pit, shadowed and blinkered in the fire’s light. He walked over and grasped it.

“Eric, listen, as men,” his uncle said slowly, methodologically, rehearsed. “We must prepare for the future. With your father gone, and with your mother,” he uttered, shaking his head. “Being the way she is.” He bunched up his tongue. “It’s on me to steer you right.”

“The future?” Eric asked. He jabbed the poker at a coal-red log, watching sparks splinter.

His uncle ran his tongue along his bottom teeth.

“Yes, the future,” his uncle nodded. “And you know why? Because the future is for the bold,” his uncle said. “Men who take what they want, who will not be cowed, who won’t step aside.” He waved at the fire, indicating where Eric should focus next.

“The future is for men who fight for what they believe, who walk heels first to the earth,” Eric’s uncle droned on.

Eric thought about the way his uncle’s eyes went dark and his face beet red anytime he mentioned his ex-wife. He thought about how, before the cancer, his mom used to climb up on his dad’s toes and kiss him.

“The future is for what?” Eric asked and turned to his uncle.

He thought about his uncle fighting retail clerks, waitresses, flight attendants, gas station workers, school administrators.

“The future is men fighting over shit they don’t want!” Eric exclaimed, surprising himself by his outburst.

His uncle shifted in his seat, looking like a wounded bird. Then his eyes darkened and he snorted.

“Perhaps,” he said, darkly grinning. “But, in the future, you can bet my boy that when the men start talking—everyone around will stop and listen.”

A stack of logs collapsed and red coals shot up into the air, hanging there a moment, before falling away to blackened ash.

“But that depends on today,” Eric said, spitting at the dirt. He squared his shoulders and looked his uncle in the eye. “On what we do, today.”

Frozen in his seat, his uncle watched as his nephew walked away, leaving him with what remained of the fire.

As the back gate latched shut, Eric stole a last look at his uncle, who sat dull-faced, jaw tight, eyes faraway, afraid, alone.