Kenneth unclipped a small aluminum canister from his belt and set it next to my knee on the sand.

“If the firing pin comes out in one piece, we bottle it right here,” he said.

“Keep your fingers away from the side wall,” I told him.

My phone hummed twice in my utility jacket pocket.

I didn’t take it out.

When you’re eighteen inches from forty pounds of exposed explosive fill, a phone message stays in your pocket until the fuse is safe.

Kenneth held the needle-nose pliers ready while I worked the brass blade to back the top retaining collar off two turns.