The park’s spreading decay had found its way into their home as well. Every surface was coated in grime so dense it was more scab than filth. All the mirrors hung crooked and dusty, and the black pleather sofa was pocked with rips, releasing wisps of white padding from tiny, rabid mouths. Their trailer was a one-bedroom unit, so the corner by the living room bookshelf had been designated as Junior’s space, marked by a bare mattress. On it lay a plum sofa cushion for a pillow and Mom’s bese saka shawl, twisted and worn translucent like a shed snakeskin. A bicycle against the wall. Lego pieces scattered across the Frankenstein floorboards, sticky under his boot soles. He squatted to examine the object the boy had been assembling before fleeing for the bathroom. It was a simple, square box. He was impressed by how the boy had shaped it into an even-sided cube, the corner pieces alternating, interlocked to ensure structural integrity. It showed promise, potential. Imagine: his son an architect, an engineer—relevant.

Planning. Future thinking. Dreams curdled by an awareness of the self-delusion necessary to even momentarily entertain such fantasies. But this cube, constructed with such meticulous technique by a kid of only six, was actual evidence of potential. It vindicated Henry’s otherwise misguided hopes, and indicated this boy could do so much more, could be so much more.

Henry twirled the bese saka shawl into a fabric nest to properly display the Lego cube like some priceless artifact in a museum. He peered at the bookshelf, up to the most prominent slot: Papa’s urn, the journals with Mom’s articles. He gave them a frown of approval. Wished they could see this exhibit for themselves. Even though he’d never lived up to his parents’ expectations and would never realize the potential they’d mistakenly seen in him, the fact that his own son was bound to surpass him in all respects seemed to one-up all his parents’ efforts and hopes for him.

“Hen,” Michelle said. “Think someone wants to say hello.”

Behind her birch branch legs was Junior. He was a paler version of Henry at that age but already more handsome in a disturbingly adult way. On Junior, the faint hint of Michelle’s edges compressed Henry’s features into a bust of stoic dignity. Squatting, Henry extended the top of his hand, as if coaxing a stray puppy, and instantly felt stupid, patronizing.

“Hey, bud,” he croaked.

Nothing.

“Saw the box you made. It’s really good.”

The boy said something too hushed to make out.

“Speak up,” Michelle said. “Whyn’t you get closer, give your dad a hug?”

“It’s not a box.” The boy came around Michelle to retrieve his creation. “I prefer container.”

“That’s a much better word,” Henry said.

The boy, turning the container in his hands, said yeah with academic boredom.