He comes downstairs at noon to find Erik at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a thermos. Get dressed. You’re coming with me. Xie pauses in the doorway. What? To work, Erik says. Why? I don’t want you lying around all day. Xie rubs his brow. Dad, I’m not. Erik cutting him off, grimacing as he swallows his coffee. Just get ready. Fifteen minutes later in the truck, dozing against the glass, news on: ice melting at both poles, whales eating plastic bags, California still on fire. Erik spins the knob. They drive for half an hour and stop at a strip mall, where two other men wait in a gutted office space, ripping up old carpet. They nod, smileless, when Erik introduces them. Xie looks at the floor. You’re gonna help me install that, Erik says, pointing to a toilet and sink stacked in a hallway. And we have to take the old stuff out. Xie tucks his chin into the neck of his hoodie. Everything, even the things they have to get rid of, look brand-new. In the bathroom his hand keeps slipping on the wrench. Sweating in gloves several sizes too big. No window. The other men begin laying down carpet pads, each shot with the staple gun echoing down the hall. Dad, Xie says. Dad. Erik grunts beneath the sink. Yeah. I have a blister. Erik frowns. From what? Xie shrugs. Go get a Band-Aid from the truck, Erik says. Xie brushes the dust from his knees, goes outside. Fresh air. Beyond the ugly blunt stucco pine trees feather the horizon, surrounding the university in the hills, a liberal hippie arts school Erik hoped would entice him with its vegan meal plans and social justice majors. But he’d had all that in California; it wasn’t different buildings, different people, different schools that he had wanted but something else, something he recognized in the woods as soon as he saw them. Hey, a voice calls, behind him; Xie stops a step shy of the truck. Little sip of air. Hey, I want to talk to you. Xie looks over his shoulder. A middle-aged man, thick beard, jean jacket, peeling away from the wall of a doughnut shop. You’re that kid, right? That’s you? Xie blinks. The guy comes in close, jacket brushing Xie’s sleeve. Kid who messed with the Moore place? Going around with your black shit and taking people’s property? Xie steps back. They’re not property. What’d you say? They’re animals, Xie repeats. They’re not property. Like hell they’re not, you know how much you cost that family? Actually, yeah, I’m paying for it, Xie says. So. Don’t really need the lecture. You mean your daddy’s paying, the man corrects, finger in Xie’s face. Consequences of your actions mean shit to people like you, self-righteous tree-hugging faggots. Shut up, Xie whispers. The man grabs the front of his hoodie, yanking Xie into an almost-embrace. Don’t fucking mumble when you talk to me. Xie closes his eyes.