The grill was not his. Neither was the shovel, and neither was the metal thing sitting at the bottom of it whose name he didn't know. rswfire started where anyone starts who arrives at a communal charcoal grill with store-bought patties and no equipment of his own: he cleaned it out. The old ash had to go somewhere, and he said aloud that he didn't think you just dumped it, so it went into the trash. Then he stood in front of an object he had never operated and said the thing plainly, to the camera, before he did anything else — he had never done this in his life. He was going to pause and ask AI as he went.
The AI told him to stack the briquettes. They were self-lighting, so he lit them in a couple of places and was told to give it fifteen minutes and wait for the look of ash to come over them. He touched something he had not checked was safe to touch, felt the warmth, said it felt nice, then said out loud that it probably wasn't smart. He closed the lid, then questioned closing the lid — it's oxygen, right — and the flames were running high, so he let them burn down. Then he corrected the record for the camera: AI says close the lid after lighting. He didn't know why. He said he was sure everyone watching already knew, that he was the only one who didn't, and then he told them anyway. Fifteen minutes in, the coals were starting to gray but weren't gray, and by opening the lid to check he had probably set himself back. He checked again. It felt warm. Good enough. They were going to find out.
The grate had to go back on, which he realized should have happened before the charcoal was lit. He got it on. He looked at the patties and said, before anything touched the metal, that he had a feeling these weren't going to cook well. He gave them seven minutes. The storm was moving in across the recording — he had known it was coming, it was supposed to get bad, and he noted that the weather people's version of bad was his version of awesome. Two minutes out he stopped and spoke directly to whoever was watching: you don't have to be an expert at this, this is how you learn, unless you have people in your life who can help you. This is how some of us learn.
The flip told him what he already suspected. The meat was juicy and raw. He ran the hypotheses in the open — the heat isn't high enough, that's the problem; I should have waited until the coals were more grayed over; the size matters too, right, mine look different. He tried the obvious fix and kept cooking, accepting that the outside would go past done. He asked for advice from the camera and asked, in the same breath, that people be kind about it. Three more minutes. He peeked. He couldn't tell. This doesn't look good. This is not working.
He named the actual constraint without dressing it up: he wasn't going to get himself sick. The patties came off the grill uneaten. He had two more in the fridge, but tomorrow was the Natural Bridge and the sand gap, an all-day hike, and after that he'd wanted the lodge, whose burgers he loves. Maybe Saturday morning before he left. He said it a second time, and that was the whole of the verdict — this doesn't feel safe to me, I don't think I should be eating this.
Strong rain came down right there, right at the end, and he said so. New plan: warm up some ham, make ham sandwiches, it's what he's got. No condiments. Ham and bread. The standard held — he did not eat the burger. The plan moved. The camera stayed on through the part that didn't work, which is the only part that teaches anything, and he left the record intact for whoever else arrives at a grill without anyone to show them.