As soon as Henry finished counting the cash, he understood why this pane of bulletproof glass had been installed: to protect the cashier from people like him. The glass was cloudy with scuffs, evidence of previous attempts to collect what had rightfully belonged to anyone on his side of this panel. What a lowdown, slumlord hustle. Charging him for his own money, skimming the dues for his sweat, his time. These scumbags banked 10 percent of any check under five hundred dollars, but only 7 percent of anything bigger—why would it cost more to have less? It was expensive to be poor, and so right here, right now, Henry resolved he never would be.

With the ten twenties, the fiver, and two singles held rigid, he troweled the three coins off the counter and into his free palm. When he flashed a sneer through the glass, the cashier raised his eyebrows as if to ask, so? What exactly was Henry going to do about it? From between the cashier’s lips crowned a bubble the color of brain matter. It grew.

Henry turned to leave. Didn’t have to stay to know it would pop.

The muffler of Al’s Bonneville was shot, turning all drive-time conversations into yelling matches. Still, even at such a volume, lying to Al was easy. Putting up with his whining, not so much.

“But you look fine, dude.”

“My stomach hurts,” Henry said. “I want to go home.”

“I need you tonight, Henry, c’mon. How’s about I throw down for you? Bank your first paycheck, blow it on something bigger, or invest it, like on this idea I got for—but, hey. C’mon. Toot the rest of this baggie. All yours and plenty more at Meghan’s.”

“Not tonight.”

“Dude.”

“Shut up and take me home.”

Al ducked, rummaged under the driver’s seat. When his ham-hock shoulder brushed the wheel and swerved them into the adjacent lane, Henry dove to steer them back straight.

“Just what the doctor ordered, dude,” Al said, swatting Henry away with a half-drunk bottle of rotgut tequila. “Down the hatch. That and a couple bumps will have you tip-top, hunky-dumpty-dory.”

“We’ll hang out tomorrow, but tonight, nah. I’m not going out.”

Al huffed. “Fag.”

“Fat-ass.”

“Fuck you, you swishy lady-boy,” Al said. “Fucking Filipino faggot.”

“Right,” Henry said. “The alliteration was a nice touch.”

“Literate this.” Al grabbed his crotch. After that nothing was said, nothing heard except the busted exhaust system, a sustained, tinny screech like a cat getting mangled into a megaphone, until Al slammed to a stop in front of Papa’s house.

When Al killed the engine, a quiet fell to match the empty neighborhood street. He tracked two furry, nicotine-stained dice swaying under the rearview, as if waiting for total stillness to speak. After a final teeter, he grabbed and twisted them, showing Henry a roll of snake eyes.

“Yo dude, look,” Al said. “Gorilla tits.”

“Clever.”