But these messages are curt. Clipped phrases. Abbreviations and acronyms strip away any trace of possible concern, let alone affection. Michelle had run off to California. Finally made it to the ocean. Overrated. People too happy. Weird. She burned through the money in a week. Then OD’d the next. Now at a halfway home. Working part-time. Saving up. Wanted to come home. Soon. She even wrote that she was sorry, for everything, but still, fuck u. She wasn’t sure about the two of them, but knew she needed to see Junior. Asked him to tell Junior she was sorry and that she would be back as soon as she could and that she loves him very, very much. Promised she would make it up to him. To Junior, she clarified. Doubted she could ever really forgive Henry. They would have to talk.

During his second read through, he does a better job of conjuring her voice. No way she would ever forgive him, but, maybe someday, the boy could. He strokes Junior’s head, slicking his hair into a handsome, sweaty swoop.

“Mommy’s coming home,” he whispers.

The boy is quaking and mumbling but doesn’t stir from his fever dream.

Michelle is coming home with no home to come back to. Even still, right here in Henry’s hands is the one and only reason she’s coming back. The only one who matters, the only one who’s worth anything. Worth everything. He thinks back to December, back when they’d left their home and hit the road for good, and it’s all so clear now, again and right in front of him all along. He’s only got one job: that which he’s got to. Whatever it takes to keep their child safe, happy, and healthy.

And lucky Henry. The medicine his son needs is right inside that Walmart, and so that’s where he’s got to go, and it feels pretty damn good to know at least that.

$576.17

Henry’d lost control. Really shouldn’t have snatched and thrashed the boy’s book, but whatever. He’d lost count of beers, too, and so helped himself to another, because fuck it.

He cracked open the can and threw the refrigerator door so hard that the entire appliance danced. There was a fifth of vodka in the freezer. Might help cool and lube him free of the coil, wound skintight and scalding around his neck. The freezer’s inner walls were caked in pillows of frost. He plunged his head into the box, set a red cheek against frigid crystals.

The cold cell whisked his thoughts back to the gold-plating plant. Earlier this afternoon, after the announcement, only one employee had lost it. The last one he ever would have expected.

“Name’s Lucius,” he’d said, back on Henry’s first day at the plant. “You can call me Lou or Louie. Some like Cool-heart Luke, others just do Juice.”