I had learned to move quietly in those pre-dawn hours, the way widows learn to move, careful not to wake the grief sleeping in the next room.
Six months without Daniel, and the house still felt like it was holding its breath.
I counted the coins on the counter into a small pile, then slid them into the empty coffee tin where I kept the grocery money.
I had 43 dollars until Friday.
The stack of unopened bills near the toaster had grown again.
I turned it so the return addresses faced the wall.
On the cutting board, I laid out the last of the bread.
Two slices for Noah’s sandwich.
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