In spite of Papa’s death and the ensuing onslaught of digits relaying sums so unfathomable that Henry couldn’t help but disregard them as nothing more than abstractions—impossible statistics like lightning strikes or lotto winning—the last three, four years of Henry’s life had been, in a word, good. So much of this improvement was owed to the gradual mutation of the dynamic between him and Papa. The softening, Henry liked to call it.

The softening even had a start date: that May morning Papa had given him the truck and returned the first paycheck. Papa had even gone so far as to write three words Henry had never imagined he deserved, let alone would ever receive from the old man.

Proud of you.

The year after the buckthorn hustle, which had been clipped by a park ranger and a five-thousand-dollar illegal dumping ticket that exhausted all their earnings, Henry managed to graduate from high school. Even bumped his GPA up to a C average—insufficient to earn Papa’s praise, but evidence of Henry’s efforts, a gesture of gratitude and respect. Once he was available to work full-time, Papa got him a job with the contracting firm, under the condition that, come autumn, Henry would enroll in classes at the local community college.

The first two months of work had been the most time Henry and Papa ever spent together, at least actively communicating. Nine-, ten-hour days of Papa teaching him the tricks of the trade.

Before every demo, Papa would say, “Like this, ah.”

And now, reminiscing, Henry finally found something specific to grieve. He’d never told Papa what a good teacher he’d been.

“Like this, ah,” Papa said, showing Henry how to lift the guard and run a table saw to make quick notches in floorboards, to spare himself from unloading and setting up a jigsaw. How to feel for the copper twine between the teeth of a wire stripper, and to leave at least two inches of slack as a courtesy to the next guy who might be tasked with changing a light fixture. How to measure and set dry-wall quickly, without losing track of a stud’s position. The seven-eleven rise-run rule for building staircases, and how to measure for a banister’s bends and bracketing. How to safely connect and test gas, electrical, and water lines for stoves, laundry machines, fridges, toilets, and sinks. How to balance a level on top of a trowel, angling the grade until a third of the bubble was split, so that rainwater would run off a patio’s surface and into the lawn. With his audiobook paused and headphones hooked behind his neck, Papa spoke to his hands, describing the technique and logic behind every step of a process, only to dismantle his work or fetch a fresh piece of material in order to let his son try carrying out the new task himself.