The steaks were so big they barely left any plate space for sides. Al balanced two dinner plates on his block tower, the first dedicated entirely to the porterhouse, the second loaded high with mac’n’cheese, a dinner roll, and a few leaves of lettuce. A hush fell among the three of them as they all began eating, the sound of their chewing and swallowing indistinguishable from the spring evening’s thrum. The bloody muscle char was so delicious it had an almost stupefying effect on Henry, dulling the crisp awareness the lines had brought him. He slouched against the backrest to take a break between bites, bummed a Kool off Al, who then skipped back inside to load up on more macaroni, the lettuce untouched.

The full-belly serenity was disrupted only by an almost audible sense of gratefulness, a crackling, electric current that threatened to bolt through Henry all night if he didn’t channel it toward the appropriate recipient, and soon. Reclining, he listened to his own voice thanking Michelle for the wonderful meal, as well as Al for the company and cocaine. Sure meant a lot to him, the world to him, to have everything he could ever ask for and, most importantly, these two beautiful people to share it all with. He was the luckiest son of a bitch that ever lived, he told them, and hearing this self-evident truth stunned him into silence.

While his mouth had been motoring in autopilot, his thoughts had been meandering unchecked, off to somewhere murky, dark. A jumbo screen ignited against the black of his eyelids. It glared and pulsed and scrolled through the inventory of his friendships, accomplishments, and hopes. Smack center he saw himself, minuscule, earth-bound, but nevertheless a man. A man who had everything, which sure was a whole lot to lose.

He shuddered. Blinked himself back to the patio. Shakily, he rose to collect the plates and start on the dishes, but Michelle took them from him.

“I got it, Hen. Stay out here. Al got something to tell you.” When she leaned in for a kiss, their baby brushed against Henry’s arm.

Al was in Buddha mode. Lips drooping in moronic bliss, a hand stroking the red planet of his stomach. Michelle kicked his shin. “Right, Al?”

“Right right right. Leave one a them plates out here, though.” Al mopped the grease up with a roll, popped it into his mouth, then poured out another white hill to gun them through whatever it was he had to say.

“Drink up,” Al said, and so Henry did.