Nothing. Henry says nothing at all. Not even when the principal stops them at the doorway to reclaim school property, the thin blanket, which he peels off Junior, only to toss it over a desk chair. Not even when Henry trudges through the low halls, sensing the principal tailing them on their way out, as if Henry were some disgruntled, freshly fired employee scheming a parting vengeance of vandalism or theft.

The truck sits akilter on the curb, matching the wobble in Henry’s field of vision. Standing at the passenger’s-side door, he wraps the bese saka shawl around Junior and rubs the boy’s shoulders as if trying to spur a spark with a twig. The boy’s head lolls. He has Michelle’s boiled-shrimp eyelids and beneath them irises skitter up and down the blanket’s pattern. A firm blink. Recognition steadies him, and abruptly his head cocks back to fully take in the figure above him, his pa. The boy’s eyes shimmer, then narrow into slits. Henry’s wrapped the covers so tight that Junior has to squirm in order to free a shoulder, an arm, an elbow, until, finally, a hand with which to slap Henry.

The boy’s got the strength of a noodle. It doesn’t hurt, but still. It’s a surprise.

“You fucking asshole.”

Never heard such venom out of the boy. These words, the runoff from his parents’ fights, must have permeated his vocabulary, but Henry would never have expected such proficiency, such jugular-slashing accuracy. He’s stunned. Needs a moment to generate a response, torn between reprimand and apology. Then, just as he starts tipping toward the latter, a small fist connects with his chin.

Then another. Again and again, until the thuds hammer into a tempo for Junior’s sobs, insults, and the list of his father’s crimes and deficiencies. His pa had forced him to eat that ice cream cone, even after he said he couldn’t, even after he said he was sick and too full. Dragged him out of the first bed he’s slept in in months, in the middle of the night, before even taking a bath. Kicked him out of the truck and into school when he was like this, Pa, like this. Humiliated him—yelled at him in front of the whole school. Hadn’t answered the nurse’s calls, not even the principal’s. His pa had forgotten him, abandoned him.

The punches stop. The spot of Henry’s chin where he’s accepted thump after thump is glowing. All of Junior clenches, channeling the dregs of his energy into one final wail. A weak, slobbery roar. At last, he crumples, exhausted. Through the trickle of sobs, he mutters something else, but it gets lodged behind his teeth.

Henry leans into the little furnace. Gently as he can, he says, “What was that, son?”

“You killed Mom.”