“No pressure. Take a day or two. Discuss with your family. Tomorrow Miss Blaine will call you. Debbie is our executive HR manager, and she can answer any questions you have about the compensation, the stock options, and the transfer.”

“Transfer?”

“To South Florida, to Miami.”

Pat looked up at the ceiling of his mortgaged Dallas house.

“Of course. That would be great.”

“Congratulations, and not to speak prematurely, but welcome aboard.”

They hung up, and Pat ran to the kitchen sink and vomited.

Pat’s breathing now felt labored, and the pain in his side came back. Just standing there felt impossible. Thank you, God. I get it. I’m done. I’m quitting. Thank you. He had a thousand half thoughts but couldn’t hold on to one. Just need one or two more to settle everything down. He then heard a tapping at the screen door. He thought it was the mockingbird, but then the tapping grew more frequent, and Pat raised his head from the kitchen sink to look outside. Hail the size of quarters pelted the patio. The wind sheared through the trees, and a draft moaned across the attic and the ceiling vents.

Jesus.

The front door flew open and then slammed shut.

“Dan? Pat?”

Pat stepped into the hallway. Anne was drenched and clutching her purse with her fist.

“I was at Tom Thumb and they came on the speakers and said Dallas County was under a tornado watch.”

Pat staggered around the kitchen to find the radio.

“There’s a huge storm coming, Pat. Where’s Dan?”

Before he could answer, an air-raid siren started to wail and blare.

That same morning, Dan was holed up in his room listening to the spare testaments of John Wesley Harding while reading Shelton’s account of the motorcycle accident. His mother went out shopping without bothering to bother him. Then his father left for Mass without guilting Dan into coming. Can’t keep track of when one fight ends and another begins. Alone in the house, Dan wandered room to room. He took two finger-pulls of peanut butter from the jar in the fridge and funneled a handful of Honey Nut Cheerios into his mouth. The house was creepy quiet, like the walls were somehow absorbing sound. Dan settled into the back TV room. Through the window, he saw the dark peaks of clouds rising like a mountain range. Dan flipped around the channels, but it was the Sunday morning block of kiddie cartoons and TV preachers. Bored, Dan thumbed through a mound of his father’s papers—junk mail, résumés returned to sender, form-letter replies thanking him for his résumé, want ads from the Times Herald, and, below that, a small workbook.

30-DAY CLINICAL TRIAL FOR HYPOVITAMINOSIS CHOLECALCIFEROL

PATIENT DIARY PATRICK FRANCIS MALONE

The phone rang. Dan extracted his father’s diary from the pile and dashed into the kitchen to answer. It was Cady Bloom.

“Hey, Danny boy.”