It’s not Alonzo’s name he sees in the little window, but Holly Gibney’s face. It’s a photo he took himself, catching her in one of her rare smiles.

“Hey, Holly, how are you? I’ll have to call you back in a few, it’s been a crazy morning here, but—”

“I need you to come home,” Holly says. She sounds calm, but Jerome knows her of old, and in just those six words he can sense strong emotions held in check. Fear chief among them. Holly is still a very fearful person. Jerome’s mother, who loves her dearly, once called fear Holly’s default setting.

“Home? Why? What’s wrong?” His own fear suddenly grips him. “Is it my dad? Mom? Is it Barbie?”

“It’s Bill,” she says. “He has cancer. A very bad cancer. Pancreatic. If he doesn’t get treatment he’ll die, he’ll probably die anyway, but he could have time and he told me it was just a little ulcer because . . . because . . .” She takes a great ragged breath that makes Jerome wince. “Because of Brady Fracking Hartsfield!”

Jerome has no idea what connection Brady Hartsfield can have to Bill’s terrible diagnosis, but he knows what he’s seeing right now: trouble. On the far side of the building site, two hard-­hatted young men—Habitat for Humanity college volunteers like Jerome himself—are giving a beeping, backing cement truck conflicting directions. Disaster looms.

“Holly, give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.”

“But you’ll come, won’t you? Say you’ll come. Because I don’t think I can talk to him about this on my own and he has to get into treatment right away!”

“Five minutes,” he says, and kills the call. His thoughts are spinning so fast that he’s afraid the friction will catch his brains on fire, and the blaring sun isn’t helping. Bill? With cancer? On one hand it doesn’t seem possible, but on the other it seems completely possible. He was in top form during the Pete Saubers business, where Jerome and Holly partnered with him, but he’ll be seventy soon, and the last time Jerome saw him, before leaving for Arizona in October, Bill didn’t look all that well. Too thin. Too pale. But Jerome can’t go anywhere until Hector gets back. It would be like leaving the inmates to run the asylum. And knowing the Phoenix hospitals, where the ERs are overrun twenty-four hours a day, he may be stuck here until quitting time.

He sprints for the cement truck, bawling “Hold up! Hold UP, for Jesus’ sake!” at the top of his lungs.

He gets the clueless volunteers to halt the cement truck they’ve been misdirecting less than three feet from a freshly dug drainage ditch, and he’s bending over to catch his breath when his phone rings again.

Holly, I love you, Jerome thinks, pulling it from his belt once more, but sometimes you drive me absolutely bugfuck.

Only this time it’s not Holly’s picture he sees. It’s his ­mother’s.