He goes to run a bath for Junior. Once the water’s temperature is just right, he leaves it running to fill up while he’s returning the iron. Won’t be gone a minute. Again, passing the mirror, he catches himself, an impostor. The only other time he’d ever worn a suit was to Mom’s funeral. Ever practical, Papa had insisted on buying a suit that was two sizes too large, so that Henry could grow into it.

In a dressing room cubicle, Papa tugged at the shoulder pads. Let them sift back down, an airy polyester shell over Henry’s torso. Papa’s rheumy eyes tracked pinches of the fabric, making measurements and predictions, sizing Henry up into the man-shaped mold he would eventually fill in to. Papa frowned with approval.

“See?” Papa said. “You’ll be able to wear this to mine, too, ah.”

Not that Papa had a funeral. In his will he’d stipulated that he wouldn’t tolerate such a fatuous expense. Instead, he’d left it all up to Henry to decide what to do with his remains after being harvested for organs. But this is neither here nor there, because all that is here is this fool in the mirror, this fraud in a cheap disguise, its shoulders too vaulted, lapels too fat, the whole getup outdated, outsized, out-landishly pathetic.

Henry grabs the iron. Winds its cord like a bandage around his knuckles. From the front door he tells Junior he’ll be right back and no ifs, ands, or buts about it—the birthday boy is taking a bath once he’s done dropping this iron off, got it?

Out in the parking lot, he hears voices from room 9. The chatter has cranked into an argument. Too muffled to make out what it’s all about. The voices are stitching over one another, a mishmash of vocal daggers. Threats. Henry will have to warn the billboard that she’s got a situation on her hands. Maybe then she would move him and Junior into a different room.

Past the vending machine’s dim glow, only more darkness. The office lights are off. The door is locked. No note in the window saying when she’ll be back, just the see-through glint of his reflection. The face floating above this ludicrous costume is sneering, almost visibly considering taking this goddamn iron and driving it straight through the window, then helping himself to his rightful five dollars and—fuck it—whatever else he might find in that drawer.