The phone squawked from the nightstand. Its ring was belligerent, and its vibrating jingled the coins into angry sleigh bells. No telling how much time had passed since he’d fallen asleep—if he had at all—only that Junior was crying, Michelle was cursing, and the phone was determined to evade Henry’s grasp, jittering off the nightstand before he could strangle it silent.

It was Al. He was here, right outside, and sorry it’d been so long. Just that shit’d been bonkers lately, couldn’t press these pills fast enough on his own, and but could he come in quick? Finally meet his basically like nephew?

“What time is it?” Henry said. “I mean, no. No way.”

“Late, yeah. Fair enough. But you, though. Get out here, dude. We got to talk.”

Henry pressed himself out of bed, conveniently already or still fully dressed. Michelle was cradling Junior and offering him a nipple that was swollen into a flushed chessboard bishop. “The fuck you going?”

“Al.”

“Hen, no. It’s so late,” she said. “Come here.”

And so he did.

He kissed her lips and Junior’s cowlick and knew precisely what he had to do.

The instant Henry slid into the Bonneville, it was obvious Al was in a bad way. The stink alone said it all, the day-old pot roast of Al’s sweat mingling with the chlorine of scorched meth. The glossy pouches under his eyes begged for rest, while his irises quivered in bloodshot puddles. He went to pat Henry but recoiled as if zapped. Shuddered, then said, “Looking good, pops.”

The compliment hung funny in the air. As if needing to anchor himself, Al’s hand clenched the gear stick then threw it in reverse.

“Where we going?” Henry asked.

“Fucking nowhere.”