Under Lucius’s guidance, Henry caught on quick despite the lack of verbal instruction. Out on the floor communication was patchy, their mouths gagged by respirators and chat buried under the incessant percussion of heavy machinery. During lunch, though, their conversations were crisp and edifying. Lucius loved dedicating those daily thirty minutes to disclosing post-prison tips over styrofoam cups of coffee. How to save money, find extra work, and prioritize. How to cut ties with the streets without burning bridges, or turning old friends into new enemies. Strategies for rebirth. The virtue of humility and a clean, simple life. How to know when to cash out and kick back. How much was enough, and then how much was plenty enough. The two traded stories about their families, jokes about their mistakes, and Lucius taught Henry how to learn from the latter. They were friends. They were honest with and confided in one another. Although Henry never worked up the nerve to tell Lucius the whole truth about what had actually happened to Al, Lucius was the only person he’d ever told about Michelle. Six months ago, he muted his voice as if that might also subdue his hurt, to tell Lucius about what she’d been doing to herself, and so, in turn, to her family.

Lucius took it all in, his milky cataract gaze locked onto Henry. Once Henry finished, Lucius just nodded slowly, as if ceding to a raw deal, then sighed.

“When everything said and done, it all come down to her wanting to change. Her wanting to get her shit right for her own self. Till then, though, it’s all on you to stay focused and do work. More than anything, you got to look out for number one.”

“You mean, like—me?” Henry asked. “Myself?”

Lucius smacked the back of Henry’s head, much harder than Papa ever had. “Now I know you’re young, but not even you is that stupid. Think.”

“Yeah, no,” Henry said. “But number one?”

“The boy, youngblood.”

As always, Lucius had been right six months ago, and so, maybe, his reaction this afternoon was the right one as well.

Earlier today, ten minutes before quitting time, the shift manager had snapped a padlock onto the lab door. Then, flanked by two policemen, he stepped into the middle of the plant floor. A megaphone gave one siren whoop and rendered his voice robotic, ordering the guys to wrap up and circle up for an announcement.

Barrels were hoisted, cyanide trickling then dripping off the raised racks. Rectifiers were deactivated, leaving the tanks to simmer, then still. Last the workers gathered, peeling off rubber gloves, safety goggles, masks.