Alone now, Henry threw the stack of kids’ books against the wall. The problem wasn’t merely an issue of anger, but the lack of a repository in which to unload it. He was mad at Junior, even madder at Michelle, but knew taking it out on either was unfair. He shot two columns of heat from his nostrils, the steam too wispy for the wildfire inside him. He’d flicked through all the packs but couldn’t find a stray cigarette. Not that he smoked regularly or even really wanted one now, but either way their absence felt intentional, deliberate, yet another slight on this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

$0.38

Things finally looking up and it’s all pretty much magnificent. Been a long time coming, and in this buzz of delight Henry can’t even decide where to begin: the cold, heavy can of High Life or the delicate sprig of the Black & Mild? The cigar’s cellophane crinkles like wrapping paper, a tiny gift for himself. He’s earned both, deserves it all, but, really, he shouldn’t let himself get too distracted just yet. Really ought to gas up and get going.

Two doors open, first the truck’s gas tank flap, then the gas station market’s, out of which steps the cashier. Henry starts pumping gas, peering past the hood of the truck to track her. In the crook of her elbow she’s got a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew and a chili dog, freeing her hands to fidget inside a pack of Camel Crushes. She’s so pretty, so enticingly mischievous, that the grin she flashes him is a lasso, its cord going taut and trailing after her as she rounds the corner by the dumpsters. A tug at his throat. The glee of surrender. It would be stupid not to follow her. No time to waste. He’s already taken care of the phone and can finish filling up on his way out. After just a gallon, he racks up the nozzle, shuts the gas tank flap, and saunters after her.

The dumpsters are wedged between the market and a car wash stall, offering a shaded enclave. Almost cozy if it weren’t for the stench, so ripe it’s candied. The cellophane tube floats down to the asphalt and his teeth clamp the cigar’s plastic tab. He asks if she’s got a light.

One hand hides a joint behind her back as the other lifts a lighter to the tip of the Black & Mild. Smoke rolls sugar over his tongue before he exhales a thick, syrupy cloud. He’s breathing fire and conquest. He is monstrous and regal and so, with a slight bow, he says, “Mind if I join you?”

“Free country.”