His hand fell because neither could he. He saw Al sobbing in the wheelbarrow, sobbing at the defendant’s table. While the plea deal and testimony had kept Henry’s sentence local and limited, the manslaughter charges got kicked up to second-degree murder. That plus the smuggling of merchandise over state and national borders faced Al with decades in a federal penitentiary. Throughout the scripted questioning and cross-examination, Al had stared at some point beneath his trembling orange county jumpsuit, as if watching all his tomorrows sluice down the drain of a slaughterhouse floor. Never steadied, never once looked up at this treacherous, self-serving rodent—his best friend—in the witness stand. When it was over, Henry looked past that whimpering pumpkin to Michelle seated in the back. Whereas Al’s eyes were locked on the floor, hers were unflinching, terrified, and drilling straight through Henry.

Into the receiver, he stammered through things he wasn’t sure were true or mattered or comforted her, but anything was better than the silence that would fall otherwise, and the gnawing that would follow. He heard himself say he’d done—no, they’d done what they’d had to. Just like she’d told him to, remember? For Junior, for their family.

The baby awoke with a fragile yelp. Beady black eyes tried making sense of the bleak monochrome of stainless steel and waxy paint. Michelle sniffed, then cooed sadly. Rocked her arms before the baby got to crying. She dipped her head. Asked if he wanted to say hello to Daddy.

“Pa,” Henry said.

She rolled her eyes. Set the receiver to Junior’s ear.

Henry muzzled himself with the mouthpiece and into it said, “Happy birthday.”

The baby’s eyes widened, awed by this bodiless voice. Henry leaned into the glass, willing his son to look at him, to see him. He thought about the it’s-a-girl cigar, Michelle sweaty and raging with her legs splayed, the horror of watching her body split and gush, how helpless he’d felt to help her then, exactly a year ago today. How helpless he’d felt the very first time he cradled Junior. How helpless he felt now, unable to smash through this glass and scoop his family into his arms and carry them off, sprinting up the hill after Papa and into those lavender mists.