It’s early June and sure feels like it. The sweat beading at Henry’s neck will have glazed into a soupy wet suit by the time this morning’s work is through and he’s headed to the interview. Even still, the boy zips the coat up to his chin, pulls the hood over his head, then reaches for the dashboard, the heat knob. Henry swats the hand away and says, “No,” which remains the only word exchanged between the two during the gallon-long drive to school.

Only two nibbles of banana disappear behind the hood before the fruit flops onto the center console. Still, Henry doesn’t bother ordering the boy to eat more. As if scared that opening his mouth—even to simply encourage the boy to eat—might unleash something rash, even hurtful. Lucius had told him to look out for number one. Instead, Henry unpeels the banana all the way. Despite having trained himself to chew with monkish patience, he gobbles it down in two orangutan chomps. The substance seems to dissolve inside his stomach rather than fill it.

Along the sidewalk, a row of yellow buses expels swarms of children, scrambling and grabbing at one another as they buzz down the walkways and into the building. The approach of summer vacation has charged the schoolyard with a sunny urgency, an almost palpable anticipation. Lawns combed tidy. Green leaves swaying plump. Sun high and bright, casting stark shadows inside the truck cab, so grim they’re viscous. The truck is idling outside the main entrance. Henry waits for Junior to move or speak. Maybe even wish his old man luck on this very important day.

Not a budge. Not a peep. Not so much as a glance past the hood’s furry brim.

Henry clears his throat.

Nothing.

“Well?” he says.

Just a sniffle, and so Henry’s done waiting. He twists Junior toward him by the elbow and just like that the boy spills. A gush of snivels and ratty whimpers. Junior pleads with Henry, saying he’s too sick to go to school, his stomach is killing him, he thinks he might pass out, really though. It isn’t right to force him to go to school when he’s practically dying, like. Just look at him. He needs rest and medicine and please, Pa. Please. Why can’t he just stay in the truck during the interview? He’ll wait. He’ll hide. He won’t make a sound and promises nobody will ever notice him. Swears it, just—please?

“You done?”

“Please, Pa.”