A pig is herding sheep on TV. Junior gives a pained giggle. Room 9’s door slams. A new and deeper voice rumbles over the dogmonger’s. Henry presses a button on the iron, unfurling a hiss of steam that momentarily washes out the muffled conversation next door. On his hands and knees, he sets to work on the dress shirt for tomorrow. The task reminds him of swiping a trowel over an inch-thick layer of sand, leveling a foundation before laying patio stones.

When he tries the shirt on, it’s ironed so crisp it feels vaguely elegant against his skin. A debonair strangle when he fastens the last button under his Adam’s apple. He closes his eyes to better recall the YouTube tutorial he’d watched over and over at the public library while he loops and snags the tie—a burgundy unwittingly matched to the motel room’s decor—into a knot. The thinner bottom strip of fabric comes out longer than the top, so he tucks it between two buttons of the shirt. The suit jacket fits just fine, its vaulted shoulders making him feel bigger, stronger. He’d thought it physically impossible to lose more weight, yet somehow the waistband hangs even slacker at the steeples of his hip bones. His belt is too battered to wear to the interview, sweat-muddled and pocked with a row of holes driven through with masonry nails. A rough tally of every five pounds shed. If he leaves one hand casually tucked in the pocket, he can keep the pants hoisted in place. He’ll have to hem them, though, so he tugs the cuffs up, steps back into his boots without socks. Before going out to rummage through his toolbox, he stops to check himself out in the bathroom mirror and is pretty sure he’s never looked so handsome, so dignified.

He calls Junior to corroborate this, but the boy has dozed off.

A banged-up Astrovan, its engine still ticking, is parked between his pickup and the Mustang. Must have held a full load judging by the number of voices jabbering away in room 9. Henry unlocks the diamond-plated utility case and nothing inside offers anything in the way of tailoring. He clicks out four unclamped steel staples from the staple gun, then pockets the needle-nose pliers. Laughter snarls from room 9, followed by dog woofs of all pitches, all wet.