Henry steps out of his boots. Hugs the carpet by curling his toes, a small pleasure he hasn’t realized he missed until now. Peeking back into the bathroom, he’s delighted to find an actual bathtub, two single-serving tabs of soap, though no minibottle of shampoo. He doesn’t have scissors, but maybe, if he’s careful, he could give the boy a trim with the utility knife. That way he could get a more thorough scrub at Junior’s scalp with the soap. He plugs the drain and twists the hot water knob. It’s not only the steamy torrent pummeling his hand that warms him. It’s the satisfaction of providing for his son, for the first time in a long time, like a decent father ought.

“Know what would help your tummy?” he calls from the bathroom. “Help you digest?”

“Hm.”

“This nice, hot bath I’m making you. Get in here.”

“No.”

Goddamnit. He’s dropped forty—no, sixty fucking dollars on this stunt. He’d internally justified this lavish risk with the fact that he would give the boy a proper scrub down, rather than yet another washcloth swabbing like they’ve been reduced to these last six months.

“You’re not getting your present till you’re cleaned up, hear me?”

The boy’s head lifts, eyes narrow. “Present?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t have to do that, Pa.”

“Course I did.”

“Why?”

“Because what’s my name?”

“… Pa?”

“There you go.”

Henry is being curt, which makes him feel bad. He turns off the faucet and joins the boy in bed, turning himself into a nest around Junior. “Let’s go, bud. It’ll help your tummy. I promise.”

“How about you go first? I want to watch some TV.”

“Junior.”

“It is my birthday.”

Smart-ass.

It’s Henry’s own damn fault for pointing this out in the first place. Then again, what difference would it make if he showered first? Might actually do him good, calm him down. He’d felt the nudge just now—the poke. His temper prodding him into Papa territory, or even nastier regions. The last thing he wants is to snap at the boy. Any of his attempts to make today special would be rendered null and void if he yelled, even just once. And so, to prove the scope of his benevolence, he goes to unzip the duffel bag.

Three muffled gun blasts make the paper bag–wrapped gift hop in Henry’s grasp. If the shots weren’t followed by a Wilhelm scream and an orchestral peal, he would have leapt and human-shielded himself over the boy. He slaps the TV on and cranks up the volume, hoping to wash out room 9’s ruckus.

“Don’t be scared.”

“Your pa is never scared,” he says, plopping onto the bed. “Here. Happy birthday.”