CHAPTER THREE: WATSON
You lost your temper, Ullman had said.
"Okay, here's your furnace," Watson said, turning on a light in the dark, musty-smelling room.
He was a beefy man with fluffy popcorn hair, white shirt, and dark green chinos.
He swung open a small square grating in the furnace's belly and he and Jack peered in together.
"This here's the pilot light."
A steady blue-white jet hissing steadily upward channeled destructive force, but the key word, Jack thought was destructive and not channeled:
if you stuck your hand in there, the barbecue would happen in three quick seconds.
Lost your temper.
(Danny, are you all right? )