She mouthed asshole, then scooped Junior up and into the kitchenette with her. Henry was impressed with himself, having found his stride as a father—a papa—in mere hours. To think this very morning he’d woken up on a stiff plastic cot in a prison cell was surreal. This was an achievement worthy of celebration, like the night at Red Lobster, when for a night he’d been rich, when for a moment he’d been god.

He wanted a marching band, fireworks, cocaine, and champagne, but the bottom corner of the Beam was all that was left and so would have to do.

Facing a corner, Michelle dug into the pocket of her hoodie and slapped a palm to her mouth. Dry swallowed. Shook her head. Leading Junior to the bathroom to start getting him ready for bed, she paused in front of Henry, who was sprawled spread-eagle on the sofa. She fingered a gnarled plastic baggie out of her pocket. Pinched out a red circular pill and gave it to Henry.

“You need this more than me,” she said. “If that don’t chill you out and shut you up, then I don’t know what.”

Far cry from champagne and the exact opposite effect of coke, but, like the bourbon, the Oxy would have to do. He popped then chased it down with the last of his jelly jar’s amber.

Soon enough, a match was struck—a blissful wick glowing and growing in his belly. This radiance worked through all his goo, cell by cell, past membranes and around tendons, until it met the final barrier of his skin. Serenity leaked out from under his fingernails and undulated up into the air of the living room, where it unfurled and dispersed and had taken hold of Michelle, too. She was toweling Junior dry with an air of peaceful vacancy. The jitter of her irises had been subdued, netted by a silky droop to her eyelids. A muffled, faraway memory of this afternoon reminded him of how strange and fucked up a day it’d been, so much so that it now seemed to be playing out in front of him like a soap opera rather than from his own perspective. As if through a sniper’s scope, he watched himself whimpering at the bus stop. She’d forgotten him, left him stranded and waiting on the day he’d believed—hadn’t for a millisecond questioned—was going to be monumental for the two of them. Sure, he’d gotten a bit pushy with her, but in the name of passion. A little hard on Junior, but in the name of parenting. He was sorry. He was trying. But what more could they expect? He was a caged hyena now released, famished and slobbering after his appetite, only to get tranquilized and succumb, and quite happily at that.