The forest was dark. The scents of moss and pine needles mingled with the sounds of birds chirping and deer foraging. He couldn’t know what other beasts might have lain in wait in the shadows, but he was with Mom, and so never felt scared. She led the way, winding around tree trunks like the ankles of giants, pointing out the best footing for scaling stony ravines, picking and passing him back wild berries, until the woods gave way to a sunny clearing on a cliff top, where they could safely set up camp and keep a lookout for whatever else might be coming their way.

Recalling this unrolled a nauseous surf as he poured the chili out of the can and into a bowl. That memory never lived had incited a great vortex now churning him earthward, as if both light and mass had been guzzled by the sequence of Mom’s actual fate and the macabre taunt of all that might have been.

Henry dipped a teaspoon into the chili, looked up at Junior, and went bedrock steady. The boy took the bite. Gave a frown of approval. Meanwhile Henry was swelling with all that could be, all they could be—he saw it as lucidly as he’d seen Mom stepping into the sunny clearing. This something else, this new thing slated for December 31, was his chance to make up for all the time he’d lost and things he’d done.

Wasn’t too far-fetched a fantasy. After all, Papa had undergone the softening. If he’d managed to change, then certainly Henry could, too. Despite withholding all affection and praise throughout Henry’s youth, Papa eventually shed his rancor and granite and redeemed himself by the time Henry was a young man. And so this actually gave Henry a head start on doing the same with Junior. Sure, he knew grueling, hungry days were coming, but he’d heard that shared struggle reinforced bonds, fostered trust and solidarity. This ending would be the beginning—their beginning.