As quickly as Henry’d been deleted, he erupts back into flesh and sensation. Sulfur and ammonia crank him into a state of focus so sharp and immediate that he can hardly hear, as if his vision is drawing extra strength from his auditory function’s neural reserves. His legs have begun moving so fast that perception gets delayed. Somehow, at some point, he’s gone around the receptionist’s desk and begun charging down a hall. He’s wound past a gurney and a white-coated woman, and his free hand has lifted to stroke his son’s face, then turned it toward a nurse who’s just stepped out of a room, reaching for the plastic flags at the doorframe. It seems whatever he’s said has stunned her hand between the green and red flags. Even muffled, he can tell it’s his own voice that’s started pleading, explaining, and so it must also be his voice that’s repelling her. She’s taken a slow, measured step backward, warding him off with her stethoscope, as if a coin on a rubber string could ever deter him. She’s facing but not seeing him, instead peering over his shoulder.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Henry yells. “Look at me, look at my son. He needs help. We’re right here.”

Another step and her back meets the wall. Cornered. She looks from Junior to Henry, then over his shoulder again.

“Look at me!”

Pressure. A tug. A freckled hand has fastened around Henry’s bicep and now slowly turns the rest of him and Junior around. It’s the cop. His grip holds firm while the other hand buoys in a gesture meant to suggest peace. A lip worms under the thick bristles, and the cop says he’s going to need Henry to calm down, okay? Take her easy, sir.

“Sir?” Henry says. “I’m a man—not sir.”

“Alrighty?” Brow and mustache furrow. “Well, man, whyn’t we pump the brakes? Got a little one myself. Know good and well how scary it is when they’re hurting, but easy does it.”

Manic and trapped, Henry swivels his sights away from the cop’s rosy cheeks and searches for an escape route. Up and down the hallway, nurses peek past doorframes to view the commotion. Even the receptionist has wheeled back from the desk, reclined and gawking, and behind her, past the broad strip mall windows, is the squad car. A ray of sunlight glints ruby in its light bar’s reflector. Henry’s thoughts flash cobalt then crimson then back to the passenger seat of Al’s Bonneville. He clutches the nape of Junior’s neck. While an officer of the law physically restraining Henry should have been plenty enough to cinch him compliant, it’s a memory, a promise that stun him into compliance.