He got up slowly from the mattress. His legs took time to believe him. The room was narrow, with an iron bed, a chair with no back, a crooked bedside table, and a small wardrobe with no door. From a nail hung his father’s old suit. Dark brown, shiny at the elbows from use in another era. His father wore it to weddings, funerals, and once to court when they nearly took his truck over debt. When he died of a stroke at a gas station outside Tucson, his mother gave it to Clay folded up, as if she were handing him not cloth but something that had to continue.