Not even a second to turn air into a rebuttal or denial. The boy’s already begun repeating it over and over—you killed Mom you killed Mom you killed Mom—spinning a mantra of flames. Henry accepts these lashes, like the punches, without a word until the chant starts losing steam, each lap softer, cooler than the last, almost coaxing the ravaged child to sleep, tugging him into a slump against the center console.

Henry’s got no idea how far they can get on that squirt of gasoline, or what they can do with one quarter, two nickels, three pennies. He cups the boy’s forehead. A teakettle. Whimpering, shivering, sweating. Henry uncaps the water jug and sets it beside Junior, who either doesn’t notice it or flat out ignores it.

Before turning the ignition, Henry holds his breath. At first the engine sputters but eventually does catch. The gas gauge needle bobs up, then floats down to an ambiguous zone over the red. About ten miles from here, across from the Walmart, is a strip mall with an urgent care clinic. If they run out of gas on the way—so fucking be it—he will carry the boy, sprinting down the shoulder of the road.

A stroke of cosmic mercy gets the truck to the strip mall. The lot here has a loose scatter of dented sedans and a lone squad car, but across the way is a dense multitude of windshields, glimmering with oceanic calm before the Walmart. The store dominates the horizon, lurking so formidably that it resembles a battleship.

Henry turns his back to the Walmart and jogs to the clinic with Junior his arms. Instead of merchandise or mannequins, the clinic’s broad strip mall windows showcase purgatory. A drab waiting room with plastic chairs and pallid faces. Inside, the faint smell of blood charges the air with something metallic, more flavor than scent. There’s a sniffle. Then a groan. As Henry passes the ailing and the seated, their expressions are all caught between pain and boredom. A man in dusty coveralls waits with his injury elevated, his hand wrapped in a towel on top of his head like a damp maroon turban. A woman cradles a trembling a child whose ankle is cocked in an impossible bend. A teenager wearing only gym shorts and high-tops wheezes pitifully, his neck, chin, and lips swollen to blimpish proportions. Henry sighs. Such communal anguish soothes him.