If I hadn’t caught a patch of shade, I’d have missed them. Those stone windows, tucked behind a row of palms. It wasn’t that long ago that word of a Northern promise whistled through Charleston. Some stayed. Some left a rose. I wasn’t too far from Mr. Freedman’s home. I always knew I was getting close to his home when I’d see the eagles circling above. They followed the smoke. Just as I did. After a few turns and some cobblestones later, I stepped into Mr. Freedman’s yard. And there it was, in the center of the yard. Splayed. Branded with a star. Smoking for hours. His prized hog. I always missed the pit master. His work was quick. Precise. In and out. On to the next town. The coals burned bright and hot, tended to by a few of his nephews, while his sisters tidied the flags and shifted the stars into place, careful not to burn their fingers. The yard was busy. Hog. Coals. Smoke. Flags. Laughter. Kids chasing. I got straight to work. I walked over to the porch to grab a few more stars. And there he was, twisting a palmetto frond. Someone hollered my name from the yard. “Three more over here.” When I turned back, he was gone. Hopped away. The yard was nearly ready. Ready for another Fourth. Another year. The sun was beginning to set. From the porch I watched Mr. Freedman, counting his stars. Pointing and counting. Before he could finish, his crow glided in from the trees with the last fallen star. It burned bright. Mr. Freedman took it carefully and set it in place. The yard sparkled. I left Mr. Freedman to it. I’d see him tomorrow.