The line produced a gust of clarity, like a hairdryer to a steamed-up mirror. He tipped his head back and let the numbing silt drip from his nasal passages down into his throat, passing the tubed bill to whoever wanted the next sniff.

Michelle manned the grill. Al was making a commendable effort to cede some stage time, asking about the pregnancy and all, saying if she hadn’t asked the ultrasonic technician nurse lady about the sex, then how come Michelle kept calling it their daughter?

She flopped a steak over, spurring flames. “I can just feel it, Al. A woman got a sense about this sort of thing. Instinct. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

“Okay, but hypothetical speaking—just asking—so but what’ll you do if it’s a boy?”

“Then that’s Henry’s problem,” she said.

“But seriously, though,” Al said. “You got a backup boy name just in case?”

“I don’t know. Name it after Hen for all I care, but it’s not happening anyway, so shut up.” She took a sip, and only then did Henry realize the last beer she’d brought out had been for herself.

“The fuck, Michelle?” he said, snatching after her beer.

She peeled away, middle finger lifting off the bottleneck. “It’s fine. Relax. Just one.”

“For real, dude. Chill,” Al said. “My ma was toe-up the entire time she were pregnant with me and look how I turned out.”

“My point exactly.”

She looked from Al to the bottle, set it down, then netted smoke with the grill’s lid, covering the meat and flames.

Once the sky settled from blue to bruise, the rope lights glinted like chubby fireflies caught in the grain of the pergola beams above. Henry’d given up counting the bottles and lines, letting himself unwind and chuckle at Al’s stories about close calls and long nights, and when the steaks were ready they all agreed it would be best to eat outside for the first time this year, even though Henry hadn’t gotten around to building any patio furniture yet. He had an idea, though. He’d been collecting leftover retaining wall blocks to eventually install a raised garden at the front end of the singlewide, so he made laps from the pile behind the toolshed and carried one sixty-pound block at a time back to the patio, until he’d stacked four into a rudimentary table in front of each of their lawn chairs. It felt good to move and sweat a bit before sitting down to dinner, made it feel earned.