Still, it felt hot. The boy fumbled and dropped it, picked it up. Look at me when you do it, not your hands. Again it fell. Look at me, I said.
Letcher hands do it.
At last it seemed he had not done it, could not do it, that next he would have to be told what to do next. The old man pulled on his shirt and his hardened fingers went to buttoning. The boy repeated the move, this time pulling from the old man's pocket. You got it. Go show Ma.