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verbalize his feelings? Well, try this on for size.
    “Listen,” Gerald said. “For the time being, you’re under my roof.”
    “I understand that, but—”
    “Good! I don’t need you to come in and tell me how to live my life.”
    “Funny thing, Dad. I was trying to make the same point.”
    Gerald’s fingers, white at the knuckles, twisted around the travel mug with the strength of a man who worked daily to the point of exhaustion—though the exhaustion was nowhere to be found in his flashing eyes. He coughed, spit twice into a handkerchief, which he returned to his pocket, then opened the sports section.
    End of discussion.
    Flashbacks of adolescence clouded Clay’s view of his father’s immobile form. The man meant well. Clay could almost hear Dr. Gerringer expounding the need for maturity:
Ironically, self-preservation finds its greatest ally in the survival of the social unit. You become a whole individual by becoming part of something larger than yourself …
And blah-dee-blah.
    Clay cleared his throat. “Early Monday morning, Dad? I’ll be there.”
    “Good.”
    “Thanks. For trying to help. For finding me a job.”
    “Here.” Gerald slapped the paper down on the table. “Take your stuff.” Clay looked down. There between sports pages four and five, a generic white envelope bore his name in black block letters.

    Mylisha was exhausted. She couldn’t believe she’d caved in again, staying at her sister’s place in Eugene. She’d done it for her niece and nephew. She’d slept fitfully on the couch, wondering about Clay, waiting for Shanique.
    At five thirty in the morning, Shanique had plunked down on the cushions.
    She reeked of smoke and perspiration. She sounded cheery, bragging about a group of businessmen who’d wandered over from the Hilton. “They’s in town for some convention.” A sharp laugh. “And some sightseeing. These boys was throwin’ down the benjamins, you know what I’m saying.”
    Mylisha sat up, pulled on her shoes. “The kids fell asleep around midnight,”she said, “and both got baths. Tyrone wouldn’t eat a bite of dinner though.”
    “Yeah, he be like that sometimes. Never can tell wit’ dat one.”
    “Shanique?”
    “I know, I shoulda been home sooner.”
    “Tyrone asked about you.”
    “Me?”
    “ ‘What kind of work does my mama do? Where she go?’ he wanted to know. ‘Ain’t no stores open in da middle of da night, not dat I seen.’ I couldn’t do it, couldn’t lie to him. I told him he’d have to talk to you.”
    “Mylisha, baby, you don’t gotta cover for your li’l sister.”
    “He’s six. He’s a smart kid.”
    “Don’t you worry ’bout nothin’.”
    “Why would I worry?” Mylisha gathered her college books and homework, tried to keep bitterness from seeping into her words. “Things’ll work out for you, Shanique. They always do.”
    “I know
dat’s
right. The Good Lord takes care of his own.”
    As Mylisha headed back to Junction City, she mulled over Summer’s words, Clay’s presence in town, Shanique’s situation. She turned onto Maple Street. Along the curb, between two police cars and an unmarked vehicle, a tow truck was hefting a red Honda Prelude with a missing door. Dark stains dotted the pavement underneath.

    Missed. Missed again.
    Man, what’s wrong with me? That stupid envelope’s throwing me off
.
    Still wearing his boxers, Clay Ryker found his mark at the free throw line in the driveway. With exaggerated patience, he bounced the basketball once more, bent his knees and cradled the ball, felt its leathery surface on his fingertips. Fixing his eyes on the back of the rim, he let the energy climb through his legs and shoulders and hands, then propelled the ball in a graceful arc toward the red metal hoop.
    Ka-lunk-ah-thunka-thunk …
Denied again.
    He was out of practice, true, but he never missed free throws. Certainly not three in a row.
    Where had the envelope come from? Who had sent it? The Rykers’