Old Man Miller kept it caged out front of his gas station. Paws bigger than plates. Across its snout, a jagged scar. Us kids would pay fifty cents to throw popcorn and rocks, shouting, “Dance, stupid bear. Show us a trick.” The bear stared across the road into the trees. Then one day, Jackson Silver stuck his hand between the bars. Black Lightening we called the bear after that. Swiped off Jackson’s arm to the elbow, quicker than Jackson could say, “Hey, bear.” Screaming, gushing blood, Jackson ran. And the bear. Well, it hunkered right down and set to gnawing.