“Know what?” Papa thumbed the fiver and two singles from the stack, set them beside the coins. “Here. Keep the change, ah.”

Before passing Henry on his way to the bedroom, Papa stopped. Henry’s whole body was rattling, every last tendon struggling to keep the tears from his cheeks and the snot from his lips. When Papa squeezed the nape of Henry’s neck, the razor’s etches tickled his skin. Papa tugged, tender yet firm, bending Henry into a bow, then placed a kiss on the top of his head. Once Henry creaked back upright, he cringed at the sight of Papa. The old man’s face still looked as worn out as before. Not a hint of triumph. Was Papa not chalking this up as a victory for the old world, or at the very least some minor comeuppance against the country and culture that had so thoroughly snuffed out and discarded him? His expression revealed nothing. Just a slate of fatigue. Maybe that ache clutching his eyes was remorse. Perhaps satisfaction. Why wouldn’t he come out with it and just tell Henry?

“Tomorrow you’ll see,” Papa said. “You’ll understand.”

$17.41

Inside room 8, shadows press against a single cone of light from a bedside lamp. Curled into a ball, Junior lies on top of the bedspread, his back to the glow. Too dark, too quiet, so Henry slaps on the overhead lights. When that fails to stir the boy, Henry marches over to the bathroom and flips those on, too. On a wrought iron patio table sits a phone, an ashtray, and a desk lamp. He clicks it on and aims its beam at Junior.

When this interrogation-room tactic proves ineffective, he lowers his voice into a prime time cop-thriller snarl. “Tell us. What’s the birthday boy think of his surprise?”

The only answer Henry gets is a muffled woof from next door.

The corners of his mouth dip in approval. Not bad. Not bad at all. Better than expected. Sure, the color scheme is pretty overbearing. Everything from the wilting fleur-de-lis wallpaper to the bedspread, lampshades, and carpet borrows some shade from the spectrum between scab and scar. Without a doubt these corporeal tones had been a preemptive step to camouflage guests’ various stains for years to come, but, to Henry, there’s actually something homey about it. Even with room 9’s woofs and TV din, it feels warm, cozy, and he says so to Junior.

Seems the boy is opting for the Fifth. The same legal advice Al had shouted as he got dragged through a steel door. Henry shudders. Repeats, “I said it’s cozy, huh, Junior?”

This time the boy manages, “Mm-hm.”