The key turned and the engine roared. With both bare feet pressing the clutch and brake pedal, he was taken by the thrill of running machinery against his flesh and under his command. He eased his right foot over to the accelerator and revved the engine. The truck cab was drenched in sound, his laughter and the engine and a delirium of possibilities pistoning wildly through his imagination. He cranked it into reverse, eager to speed off anywhere, naked and feverish, and his foot slipped off the clutch. The engine burped, then died with a violent lurch forward.

In the stillness that followed, doubts surfaced. Bubbled, then simmered. Doubts about whether he truly deserved this, if he’d somehow actually earned it, or was just being spoiled. Whether he was too proud for charity, or too old for gifts. He wondered what could possibly have compelled Papa to make such a purchase, and if there was anything Henry could ever do to rid himself of this newfound gratitude, hardening over him like a welt. No thank-you or report card, no decadelong streak of sobriety or respectful deference would ever cut it. He collapsed to his side, unworthy and eye level with the glove compartment. He was scared to open it. He braced himself before gingerly guiding the plastic hatch down. On top of an owner’s manual was a neat stack of cash, held together by a paper clip. After counting the bills—ten twenties—he found a Post-it clipped to the bottom. On it, Papa had written three words. Three words much more unexpected and devastating than I love you, which wouldn’t have gouged half as deep as these.

$16.41

Nothing on earth turns down money except old vending machines. After six attempts to feed a dollar bill into the slot only to have it spat back out, then yanking it taut and rubbing Washington’s smug face against the corner of the machine and then pinching the bill’s edges stiff and creaseless with his fingernails, the slot accepts the single with a lethargic mechanical slurp. Henry punches the Sprite button. A can lumbers inside then clunks out, the boom of its exit cracking through an evening so eerily noiseless that not even crickets want anything to do with it. The can is cold and heavy like an iced artillery shell. The vending machines are bolted right outside the motel office, and he imagines torpedoing the can through the window and pegging that thieving billboard of a woman square in the forehead.

Outside room 8, the night’s silence gets punctured again. Lifting key to lock, he can hear rushed voices, dog whines, and a TV booming from next door. The last thing he wants is another exchange with the dogmonger, but he might as well get this over with. Could be a loud, long night otherwise.