The hoarse thump of Henry’s pulse echoed between his temples, seeming to fall into rhythm with the distant click of a cooling ambulance engine. All the colors out here popped with a new, vivid luster, from the emerald strips of freshly laid sod along the sidewalks to the mint and lavender of the scrubs worn by a row of nurses seated on a retaining wall as they released perfect tufts of cigarette smoke into the air. A gentle gust tickled the back of his neck when the nurse behind him pressed a contented sigh out his nostrils. Even if it was wordless, it felt nice, maybe even meaningful, to share this moment with someone else. After two weeks confined to that remote, monochrome wing of the hospital, its air fetid with adolescent body odor and bleak futures, relishing a sensation as simple and pure as the sun on his face satisfied an unfamiliar, animal need he’d never been aware of. Being Papa’s son and reluctant heir to the old man’s spleen and cynicism, he’d been trained to scoff at insipid pleasures like these. The advice to enjoy the little things had all the wisdom of Top 40 lyrics, he knew this, but still he let his thoughts meander freely, off to wherever they pleased. They stopped at his mother. Mom. How she used to pause in the middle of parking lots to close her eyes, then tilt her face to the heat above like a sunflower. Yellow. Serene.

Thank god she hadn’t lived to see Henry like this.

He didn’t have to open his eyes when Papa’s truck pulled up. Henry would recognize the F-250’s rusty thrum anywhere. All it took was one glance to see Papa had already calcified into his typical stony self. Miles from the tear-pulped version Henry encountered at the foot of the hospital bed when he’d stirred back into waking two weeks ago. His field of vision had been fuzzed sepia, his mouth coffin-dry and caked in the residue of some godawful cocktail of charcoal and dog shit. His tongue wouldn’t obey, couldn’t be pried from the back of his teeth to say everything he was supposed to.