Working with his back and hands kindled embers of satisfaction in Henry, and not only on payday. Shifts at the grocery store had been a thankless monotony of restocking products in order to ensure perpetual convenience and commercial order. This work, on the other hand, turned his hours and efforts into final, tangible products. And nothing frivolous, either. The crew’s and his own labor transformed dead space into havens of utility. Kitchens for feeding children. Balconies and patios for hosting friends. Sturdy roofs furnishing shelter from the elements, and under them airy bedrooms for listening to the rain. All of this motivated him to refine his craft and knowledge, inspiring an ardent concentration for Papa’s demos and lessons.

Henry was a quick learner, always had been. Strong for his size and attentive to his coworkers, always there to relieve someone of a heavy load of concrete bags or offer a set of hands to clamp or press or give leverage for a tricky cut or awkward fastening. The foreman took note. Plus, since Henry had a truck of his own, he could be counted on to help with loads, disposals, and errands, and so, by that August, he was sent to work on other projects, away from Papa.

The crew usually took lunch on-site. If wheelbarrows hadn’t been used for mixing concrete earlier that morning, the crew raced to claim one as a makeshift break-time recliner, their asses cupped in the buckets and heels kicked up onto the handles, half-napping as they ate bologna sandwiches, bruised bananas, and beef jerky, then washed it down with Red Bulls to motor them through the longer, hotter half of the workday.

That last Friday of working together, Papa hissed at Henry, who’d been making his way toward the others opening Igloo lunch boxes under the shade of an enormous white oak. Papa tipped his chin toward his truck and mouthed, Let’s go.

They went to a sports bar situated at the end of a decrepit strip mall, seemingly the only establishment still in business. Exactly the type of place he figured Papa would have hated. Inside, the glare of noon was confined to the single front window, leaving the rest of the bar dark and stuffy. All the customers were men, workers on lunch taking thirty minutes to let the AC wick the sweat off their necks while staring up at muted televisions playing sports recaps and daytime talk shows.

“Long time no see, mister,” the waitress said to Papa, pinching his upper arm. He almost smiled, blushed.

The waitress’s left cheek was swollen, and in the fissures of her taupe foundation were slivers of plum, a bruise, yet her voice was melodic, upbeat, and perfectly suited to her pear shape and corn-yellow bob cut. Such affability after such abuse suggested a resilience that Henry both admired and envied.

“What’re we drinking, gentlemen?”