Even as he works on hemming the pants, he decides to keep the top half of the suit on, as if shedding it might disperse the earlier surge of confidence his reflection had provoked. Carefully he presses the staples through the folded layers of polyester, then cinches them into sharp, tiny bows with the pliers. After he irons the hem into a stiff crease, it doesn’t look half bad. The beads of exposed steel are barely noticeable at the sides of his ankles. Trying them on, fully suited, armored, he’s ready. In front of the bathroom mirror, he swells into the pitched cavities of the shoulder pads, and he knows that as of tomorrow, things are going to change, and this time for the better.

No more excuses. It is time for Junior to take a bath. At Henry’s touch, the boy’s eyes flutter dreamily, then stretch nightmare wide.

His voice is a handful of pebbles when he says, “Wow, Dad.”

Henry doesn’t correct the boy, because, yes. Right now, more so than in so long—if not ever—he feels like an American.

“You look,” Junior starts.

Henry waits, billowing. “Yes?”

“So … I don’t know,” Junior says. “Different?”

Not exactly what Henry’d been hoping for, but it’ll do. After all, what with the last six months, different can only be an improvement. Still though. Can’t help but ask if Junior means that in like a good way or what?

The boy nods. “A very good way.”

The bath can wait because first things first: Henry needs to hug his son. He scooches himself onto the bed, sets his shoulders against the headboard, then pulls Junior onto his lap. The boy is trembling, his neck and forehead sweat-slicked and radiating, and so Henry squeezes even tighter, this time truly convinced he can wring out this fever with his own two arms, his own two hands.

It’s useless. Tremors keep rattling the boy no matter how tightly Henry twists the rope of his arm muscles. But a part of him is still coasting on that waning crest of pride, and maybe that’s what helps him see that, in spite of everything, he’s still got enough strength to hold the world entire in his tired arms. He squeezes and rocks Junior. His son, namesake, and legacy. The breathing token that irrefutably proves—against all odds and faults—that Henry’s time on earth hasn’t been entirely wasted. At least he’s done one thing right.