Sipping quick so he can get a refill on the way out, he wanders the wide aisles of building materials, looking for an empty slot, an out-of-stock item to name in case he gets stopped by an employee. As he passes the lumber and rounds into a lane full of bagged cement, the logic behind the division of inventory dawns on him. The contractors’ half of the store holds all the fundamental elements for building a home, all of which later get concealed by the ornaments for sale on the other side, all the paints, light fixtures, moldings, carpets. While the construction of a home adheres to a sequence—the structural first, foundation and framing; next the functional, plumbing and electric; and last the aesthetic, decor and color schemes—it’s by no means a ranking of importance. A shelter might only require the first two, but all three are essential to create a true home. If given the materials and a patch of land, he knows he could build one for his family. Not that he’s entitled to that, but still. Doesn’t seem too much to ask for, either. Before his imagination pours the foundation’s concrete, he takes note of an empty slot here in the irrigation and drainage aisle.

Hunger has him cavernous all over again, the pangs reverberating through him like his footsteps in this warehouse. The caffeine and sugar spur a riot of worries—Junior, money, the dogmonger, iron, and interview—in his brain, but deliver no strength to his limbs. Just a hot sputter in his gut. He flicks the stir stick to coax the slug of dregs and sugar into his mouth. The grains scrape over his tongue and down his throat as if he’s swallowed a shot of sand.

All the gore and panic after last night’s bath has left him greasy. It’s early enough that he can shit in peace, then scrub himself down with the men’s room’s green industrial-grade soap, even though it’ll dry out his skin and leave him less clean than sterilized. Might help.

It doesn’t. The skin of his face gets papier-mâché brittle. He uses saliva to moisturize the flaky patches under his nostrils, then stops for a second coffee before exiting. Only decaf left, so he doubles up on the sugar. A burnt-down candlestick in an orange bib rounds the cash register and starts approaching. Asks if there’s anything he could help Henry with today.

Yes, Henry thinks, loads. He spits six sugar packet corners into his palm. To the coffee, he says, “Looks like you’re fresh out of drain tile.”

“I could check out in the yard for you,” the candlestick offers.

“No need,” Henry says. “I’ll live.”