Bryce was nine when the grass fire caught him in March.It was a Tuesday. The fourteenth. Burning season in the Flint Hills of Kansas, when every rancher in three counties sets fire to his pasture to burn off the old grass and the cedar trees, so the new bluestem comes up green and sweet for the cattle. You can see the smoke from fifty miles away. At night the hills glow orange like somebody spilled coals across them.Everybody out here grows up with it. Nobody’s afraid of it. That’s the trouble.
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