They made me sign a waiver before the wings arrived. A paper. To eat. As though courage came with a release form. The cheerful waiter set the plate down like a man delivering a verdict. "These are the Infernos. Most people tap out. There's milk if you need it." I looked at the milk. The milk looked back. We understood each other. Neither of us would be needed tonight. "I will not be requiring the milk," I said. The first bite arrived like a small sunrise behind the eyes. (My tongue filed a formal complaint. My eyes opened a second one. I overruled them both.) A man does not ask the fire to be gentler. He only becomes harder to burn. I did not reach for water. I did not wave a hand before my mouth. I sat, straight-backed, and ate the Infernos one by one, the way a man receives ten thousand letters of bad news without changing his face. Beside me, a college boy attempting the same challenge was weeping openly into a napkin. So, between bites, I turned to him and said, calmly, that the fire is not the enemy — the wish for it to stop is the enemy. He stared. Then he picked up another wing. When the waiter returned, expecting wreckage, he found an empty plate and a samurai sitting in perfect, sweating peace. "...sir. You want the wall? You're on the wall now. People take a photo." I rose. I bowed to the plate. I bowed to the kitchen, where unseen hands had forged so worthy a trial. "Thank you for the fire," I told them. Then I turned to the room and said, with smoke still somewhere in my soul: "Comfort teaches a man nothing. Bless the meal that fights back." The college boy lifted his last wing like a torch. The cook came out to shake my hand. The whole table behind me began, softly, to applaud the strange calm man who had thanked them for the burning. I walked out into the cool evening, mouth aflame, heart entirely at peace. A small fire, faced well, is just another way to know you are alive.