Exhaled air began curling into more recognizable sounds seemingly of its own accord, unraveling off his tongue and past his teeth where they sewed themselves into meaning, braving that impossible distance between his lips and the boy’s ear pressed against him. At first the sounds were more brushstrokes than rhetoric. Oily drips that, when combined, suggested an impression, a loose description of Mom—Henry’s mom, the boy’s grandma. She was the one, Henry explained, who’d given him and Junior all their good parts. All their curiosity and tenderness, all their smarts and discipline, and then Henry stopped. Reconsidered.

“Yeah, no,” Henry said, correcting himself.

That was when it sank in. All of Mom’s goodness had lain dormant in himself and instead skipped a generation, having waited patiently to set its roots and flourish in a worthy host: Junior. Did he know that, huh? Because Henry did. He got it now. Could Junior see it, too?

The boy shook his head.

“Have I ever told you that my mom was very, very sick, too? Back when I was little, almost twice your age, but not even half as brave as you. I know how scary it is to watch your mom—your heart and whole wide world—get so sick and weak and not know how to even start helping her, how to help fix her.”

It seemed his voice had stilled the boy’s tremors, and so Henry continued, telling the boy that his grandma had been like a sunflower. Tall and yellow and strong. Her face always tipped up to the sky, absorbing the warmth so she could share it with everyone else. And Junior, he did the exact same thing on sunny days. Really, though, they were so similar. How the simplest treats or tasks—like a nibble of chocolate, or tending to a scraped knee—put Grandma in a sort of trance that was way beyond focus. More like reverence, or awe. Just like Junior. And so what Henry was trying to say was that Junior had somehow, so luckily, inherited all of Grandma’s good qualities. All her strength and sweetness and smarts. That was for sure. His grandma always knew exactly what to do and say to help Henry, keep him from crying. Because the truth was—and now this was a secret, could Junior keep a secret? Okay, because the truth was that when Junior’s pa had been his age, he’d been a total crybaby. It wasn’t funny. It was true. A real wimp and, in comparison, actually kind of stupid, too. Nothing like Junior, so dang smart. So smart and strong and sensitive and that was exactly why his pa needed him right here, right now, always and forever, and then some. He needed Junior’s help because he couldn’t do this on his own.

It was true.