The front door to the house screeched open and then slammed shut. Dan’s in a mood. Aren’t we all? The boy can’t stand to be in the same room with me. After a few minutes, Pat realized he was alone in the house and what that meant. He stood up and pulled his bum left leg along to the pantry. The weather was changing, and as he walked past the screen door to the patio, a mockingbird swooped from the holly bushes into the screen, crashing with a loud thwack. Pat watched it recover. Drunk off the rotting berries. Jesus. The bird flew off, and Pat stared across the yard in complete despair. Through the blur of heat in the alley, a black car fished past the Peñas’ driveway. There sat this year’s El Dorado, and behind that new ten-foot fence, an in-ground pool. Reshingled roof and new siding last year. And Abe is a fucking janitor at Kimberly-Clark! Pat shook his head. Christ, it was easier when I was poor and knew no better—to have nothing was its own bliss.

Pat noticed the dark line of thunderclouds had crept farther east. The mockingbird returned to its nest in the holly. Fuck it. Pat lurched toward the pantry. There was the bottle of Wolfschmidt that Anne was blacklining, and then there was the bottle Pat had hidden behind the vinegar. He took two long pulls straight from that bottle in the back, his throat burning. Pat gagged, and it strangely reminded him of his own father. He’ll be here before the bad stuff passes through. Pat felt the anger welling up and took another swig. He was about to start sobbing, as the burn in his throat now scorched his stomach, when a sharp pain ripped through his gut. Fucking MS. He doubled over and staggered back into the den, practically crawling toward a burnt-orange chair to lie down on. The bottle of vodka dropped at his feet. The stabbing pain in his side subsided through shallow breaths, and Pat closed his eyes. He’ll be here. Get out of the storm, Jack. And Pat bolted up from the burnt-orange chair, sheathed in sweat. The phone was ringing.

“Hello?”

“Pat?”

It was Joe Halliday, the COO of Eastern Airlines.

“Colonel Borman is still stuck on a call with the board. Emergency meeting. Bryan and the IAM again. They are in a marathon session, but he passed me a note to call you.”

“Okay.”

“Colonel Borman would like to offer you the position of director of employee benefits.”

“Okay.”

“Pat, are you all right there?”

“Yes, sorry. Bad connection.”

“Did you hear me?”

“I did.”

Halliday then offered him a salary of $85,000 a year.

“That’s great. Thank you.”

“Let me be the first to congratulate you and offer my sincere hope that you accept. We sure could use your help and expertise.”

“Thank you so much. I might need—”