He gave it a five count, then turned for the stairs. No one followed. On the second floor, he found a landing and four closed doors. Behind the first was a bathroom, empty. The second was a bedroom, and the door was locked. “Jason?”

He heard a stirring inside, then faintly, Ah, shit …

“Open up, son. I just want to talk.”

“Now is not a good time.”

“There never is with you.”

“I said, fuck off.”

“Right, then…”

French took the knob in one hand, put his shoulder on the door and felt the lock give. Cheap metal. Cheap door. Inside, a single lamp burned beneath a red cloth that softened the light and put shadows on the young woman’s skin. She straddled Jason at the hips, riding him with a slow and steady roll. Her hands were raised behind her neck and linked beneath a spill of long, dark hair. Maybe she didn’t hear the door give. Maybe she didn’t care. “Tyra, baby. Hang on.” Jason lifted his chin, and patted her hip. “Why don’t you give us a minute?”

Sliding off the bed, she dressed with an utter lack of shame or embarrassment. French averted his eyes, but she took her time, moving around the room to collect bits of discarded clothing. Dressed at last, she kissed Jason long on the mouth, then brushed past French, and said, “Pig.”

“Nice,” he replied. “Thanks for that.”

She gave him the finger, and he watched her go. On the bed, Jason was covered to the waist, the combat scars glinting in the reddish light. He reached for a pack of smokes, shook one out, and lit it. “Fresh out of prison, Dad. You couldn’t give a man five minutes?”

“I doubt that’s the first girl you’ve been with since prison.”

Jason hooked a hand behind his head and blew smoke at his father. “What do you want?”

“You didn’t tell us you were coming home.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to know.” Anger. Distance. Another jet of smoke. “So what’s with the drop-in? You heard about tomorrow?”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“Brothers doing brotherly things. I assumed you were here to stop it, Gibby being the favorite son and all, and Mom being such a flower.”

“Please don’t be disrespectful.”

“It’s the right word, isn’t it? Flower. Snowflake. Ash in a sudden wind.”

Jason made a gesture, as if sprinkling ash with his fingers. “Are you high?” French asked. “Are you using right now?”

“Does George Dickel count?”

Jason tipped up a bottle, and all the resentment showed on his face: the intrusion, the questions, the last years of his life.

“Gibby is not a favorite son. He’s just young.”

“Same age as Robert when he was drafted.”

“That’s different.”