Parked next to Papa’s pickup was another F-250, apparently the same year but free of dents, dirt, and scratches, its steel bumper unbent and shining.

Papa stood at the top of the driveway, arms crossed, chin turning from one truck to the second. “Which one?”

Henry shrank.

“Good choice.” Papa handed him a key, then shuffled toward the newer of the two. He patted the hood as if it were a stallion, sentient, reliable. “Great vehicle. Real diehard. The way you were going before, it might even outlive you. Most certainly will me, ah.”

Papa hadn’t looked directly at Henry once. Hardly seemed to be seeing anything at all. The way he was speaking sounded more like a rehearsal than a conversation.

“Low mileage and gently used. Owner was a funny guy, admitted he’d bought it more for vanity than hauling. Not so much as a paint chip, not even in the bed, which we’ll want to tar. Anything goes wrong, I can teach you how to fix it. Serpentine belt is cracked to hell, but I’ll show you how to change that out tonight.” He swung open the driver’s-side door and to the ground said, “Get in.”

Again, Henry felt emptied, only this time by shock. A queasy levity floated him down the driveway and up into the driver’s seat. Tremors crawled back into his shoulders, his lips, which snapped stiff when Papa slammed the door shut. The shakes, which Henry tried to steady by gripping the steering wheel, resumed instantly. His mouth opened and closed, wordless as a guppy, until he finally managed one word, just a hair above a whisper—Papa.

The truck was so big and Papa so short that only the top of his head appeared at the bottom ledge of the window. His face soured with approval. After a nod, he turned to go inside. Before disappearing into the house, he called over his shoulder. Told Henry to check the glove compartment, ah.

Alone in the truck cab, Henry explored the dashboard’s radio dial and heating knobs, the adjustable center console and its inner slots. The cigarette burner, ashtray, and side-door compartments. The emergency brake lever, hood pop, and then he clicked the driver’s seat back to caress the smooth, gunmetal nylon of the rear bench seat. He wiggled the gear stick jutting up from the floor panel, tested the springiness of the clutch. He was ready.