An abandoned laundry bin gave him an idea, not even quarter-baked, but he was desperate to make it up to her. Late the next night, he threw on soiled scrubs and a stolen surgical mask, eased Michelle and Junior into a wheelchair, then began tiptoeing them down the hall.

His escape plan was foiled when a billing clerk road-blocked the wheelchair, diverting them from the fire exit and into his office. The clerk’s voice was an abacus ticking through the sprawling catalog of charges incurred. When he began laying out various payment plans, Henry shushed him, asked him to just please, please stop talking. Even post-concussion, his mind was made up and firm. Not a chance in hell would he let his son start life with even a penny’s worth of debt, and so, within an hour as promised, Henry was back in the clerk’s office with the last of the cash. He held it like an unlabeled dumbbell, unable to gauge its weight. He plopped it onto the desk, leaving it to the clerk to make sense of.

Fifty stacks, half a hundred grand, that biblical girth had come and gone in a matter of months. They were back where they’d started, before Papa’s insurance check, before the porterhouses and pill press. On Junior’s first morning home, Henry’d woken up before the alarm for work. Kissed Junior’s forehead and Michelle’s lips, then climbed into his truck. At the horizon, the June sun was an extension of himself—a blister, chafed and glaring. Out of options, and so he’d called Al. No answer. Two months ago now. Still no response.

Whatever, though. At least now Henry knew what he was supposed and had to do. It was his job to keep his eyes forward, to keep looking up, and they would manage. How couldn’t they? All of it was right here, in this bed and within arm’s reach, and—oh, he couldn’t help himself now.

He uncurled and inched his fingers toward that black satin softball of their baby’s head.

Michelle smacked his hand. “Don’t.”

She was right. Always was, but still. He locked his hands between his knees to restrain any other late-night cravings for a quick touch that might reaffirm his recently bestowed purpose. He mouthed sorry, but her eyes had already shut. Whether feigning or forcing herself to sleep didn’t matter, since exhaustion like theirs made one effort indistinguishable from the other. And while touching Junior was off-limits, he got away with stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers, which she kissed. Happily, he reclamped his hands, took her lead, and closed his eyes.