He even nails the three biggest weaknesses question. Impatience, stubbornness, and unrealistic expectations, he tells her, then briefly touches on how he’s working on each one, overcoming them, maneuvering his answers into not-so-subtle suggestions that these ostensible shortcomings might actually be virtues when considered from a different perspective. Impatience, from another angle, could be punctuality, or a demand for efficiency, right? Stubbornness reflects a firm belief system, a solid moral foundation. And another term for unrealistic expectations is ambition. Some might call them dreams.

He should not have yelled at Junior this morning.

“Henry?”

He shakes himself back into the office, snaps back into the bear trap. “Sorry.”

“No problem. We’re almost done.” She makes another quick note. “So, last but not least: Where do you see yourself in five years?”

His mind’s eye shrieks white. In the pale expanse, he sees a speck, a faraway silhouette. It is approaching, crystallizing into focus. It is Junior, not only nearing but actually growing. He is older here, has filled out into a young man—a robust, laughing version of Henry himself at that age yet unsapped by grief, drugs, or malice. A brick house sprouts then settles, clean and built into the earth. Inside is a kitchen with a full pantry, a fridge brimming with a cornucopia of produce—bundles of green asparagus and lettuce, yellow lemons and bell peppers, red tomatoes and apples, purple grapes and onions—and a window above the sink gives onto a blue-stone patio and a grill of industrial proportions. When he lifts the lid and the smoke clears, he sees steaks the size of his head, sizzling and squared by char lines, next to a chain of swollen sausages that wind around juicy chicken drumsticks dripping fat and barbecue sauce into the flames. He’s seen plenty enough.

“With any luck,” he says, “right here.”

Alex’s head tilts, an invitation to elaborate.

“And, hopefully, in a higher position? Right. More responsibilities, new challenges, you know? Suppose I could see me doing something like what you do. Helping others get their good foot forward. First things first, though, I got to concentrate on getting this job, and then doing it good and right. Take it as it comes. A step-by-step, day-by-day sort of thing.”

She writes a longer note this time. The manila folder closes without a sound. She rises, extends an open hand across the desk. “Thanks for coming in, Henry. That was great.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So does that mean I’m good? I got it? I mean, I can start tomorrow—right this very minute if you want, just say the word.”

“Technically speaking,” Alex says, waving the folder, “I got to run all this by my boss, protocol and all. But let’s just say, between you and me, I got a hunch you’ll be getting a call from somebody upstairs by the end of the week.”