The morning the man in the black suit appeared in my yard, I was standing barefoot in the kitchen, counting coins on the table and pretending I wasn’t scared. There were exactly $12 and 43 cents between me and the rest of the week. My son, Noah, sat across from me with his school backpack hugged to his chest, watching me too closely.
“Mom,” he said softly, “you’re doing that thing again.”
I didn’t look up. “What thing?”
“Counting like the money might multiply if you stare hard enough.”
I let out a tired laugh, but it broke somewhere in my throat. “Eat your toast.”
“There’s only one piece.”
“I’m not hungry.”