They said it was the coolest fight ever, my cousins did. A little older than me and boys to boot, their fathers had kept them out late at the fisherman’s pub the night before. We ate dinner there every night on those annual surf-fishing trips. As my cousins told me the story of how a fight started over a game of pool, the Bodie Island waves crashed in the morning light. To the experienced ear, winter waves sound different than summer waves, more dangerous. The fish we caught were different too, bluefish the length of my leg, and I was tall for a ten-year-old. 

The fight broke out because the Other Guys accused my uncles of hustling. Uncle Little Tommy, the hothead, head-butted a guy, then put his golden-glove fists to use. Uncle Fergus hung back, but he had a pretty face and a weak stomach, plus his kids were babies, so what did he know about fighting. Uncle Bobby, though, he jumped right in just as things were getting bloody. 

Where were you guys? I asked them. 

Under a table! We could see everything! 

My cousins told me that the Other Guys weren’t expecting Uncle Sean or Uncle Big Tommy. Then they high-fived like they were the ones fighting when they weren’t, they were just hiding like chickens. 

Of course the Other Guys weren’t expecting Uncle Sean, who was a Marine back in Viet Nam, and Uncle Big Tommy, who was special forces. Uncle Big Tommy didn’t like fighting, even though he was the size of a truck and would win if he needed to. My dad always said walk softly and carry a big stick, but I never understood what he meant till now. 

When Uncle Big Tommy stepped in with his broad shoulders and crooked nose, holding back his brothers and the Other Guys like the Hoover Dam, the fight was over.

And he never even raised his voice, my cousins whispered, awestruck by power like that, their voices so quiet I could barely hear them over the violent surf. On that North Carolina beach, I wished more than anything that I’d been under that table too. 

Today, I remember digging my toe in the sand with my rubber fishing boot, making that wish. Wishes are powerful things, even when a ten-year-old makes them. 

Fifteen years ago, my uncles started dying off. Uncle Fergus first, the youngest, then Uncle Sean, both a shock. Uncle Big Tommy, the oldest, is barely hanging on now; he could go any day. This week, Uncle Bobby was diagnosed terminal. Uncle Little Tommy is long gone, divorced by my aunt. 

My dad, who took me home early from that pub forty years ago, is coming any minute to pick up my teenager. As he pulls up, his white car is like a beacon, and I wave.

Katie Rose Pryal, JD, PhD, is a bipolar-AuDHD neurodiversity scholar and author of more than 15 novels and nonfiction books. She earned her master’s in creative writing from the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars. Her most recent book is YOUR KID BELONGS HERE: An Insider’s Guide to Parenting Neurodiverse Children (Johns Hopkins 2025). Her literary memoir, AN AUTISTIC GIRL’S GUIDE TO HORSES, is forthcoming from West Virginia University Press. Her work has appeared in many venues, including Brevity, Catapult, Ecotone, Full Grown People, and more. She teaches in the Drexel University MFA program and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.