Grasp

The bead of sweat trailed down his forehead, but he could not wipe it away. The sensation reminded him of when he was little and his older sister would sit on his chest, knees pinning down his arms, and drag a feather across his face. He’d never really forgiven her for that.

“You got it?” the radio squawked.

“Not yet.”

“Okay, grasp the cylinder by the end with the cap, then …”

“I heard that part already.”

“Which?”

“The part you just repeated.”

“But you’re not doing it.”

“There’s a bead of sweat on the end of my goddamn nose. If you want to come out here and do this, I would be happy to sit in the truck and read the fucking manual.”

“… Grasp the cylin…”

“Grasp this you motherfucker.”

“…”

“…”

“Did you do it?”

“Did I do what?”

“Grasp the cylinder.”

“That’s it,” he said as another bead of sweat trickled down his nose. He reached up to wipe it clear, hand smacking on the plastic visor. “Goddammit,” he yelled into the radio.

He gripped the cylinder tighter, grasped the cap and twisted. He did not feel the explosion.