Papa ordered a beer, which was odd. He rarely ever drank. And if that wasn’t enough of a surprise, he then said, “My son’ll have one, too.”

A penciled eyebrow arced. “Just need to see the young man’s ID right quick.”

Henry stammered, but Papa was too engrossed by the slim menu and its three lunch options to vouch for his underage son.

“Teasing, sweetie.” When she winked, her mascaraed lashes clamped like the teeth of a Venus flytrap.

Halfway through the beer, the softening was on full display. Papa’s sallow cheeks tinted. A bashful grin escaped him whenever the waitress came by to check on them, and he’d begun speaking freely to Henry, stringing together sentence after sentence into complete thoughts, a full-fledged conversation. Initially, Papa stuck to his typical instructive mode, giving Henry tips for the first couple weeks of working with the other crew. Which guys deserved and would return respect, and which ones to steer clear of. When to ask for a raise, and which projects and met deadlines to mention in order to justify it. After wiping burger grease onto the lap of his work jeans, Papa paused to observe his palms. Then Henry’s.

Though still instructive, Papa’s tone cushioned. He began talking about how Henry needed to enroll in night classes. It was the only way out, an education. Yes, a lot had happened in high school, Papa understood that, but so long as Henry took care of his generals and got decent grades, he could later transfer to a state school, or maybe even somewhere somewhat prestigious to complete a bachelor’s.

“And in something practical, ah,” Papa said. “After all, you’re pretty good with numbers, right? Imagine. My son an architect. An engineer. Perhaps something to do with computers, technology. The present, the future—relevant.”

A wistful air settled over Papa. He twiddled with the headphones hooped behind his neck. Childlike, lonely. It then occurred to Henry how out of place the old man was in a joint like this, even while disguised in the sweat-stiffened denim of all the other working men’s uniforms. How hard and dreary it must have been to stay here, stranded in flyover country now that the lifelines of companionship and his own aspirations had been severed so long ago. Among these plains of quiet, bite-your-tongue complacency, Papa was a cultural castaway. It seemed these hopes for Henry’s future were the last shreds of driftwood that he could cling to as he waded along, then floated away.

Papa twisted his glass counterclockwise on the tabletop. Gave a gloomy chuckle, then said, “You don’t want to end up like me, ah.”

Michelle clacked the singlewide’s screen door open. Her bare feet padded behind Henry. She bent, embraced him from behind, and two droopy sweatshirt sleeves flopped onto his chest. She smelled like sleep.

“What you got there?” she asked.

“Life insurance check.”