By morning, the house smelled like burnt toast and old coffee.
Mr. Gideon had made breakfast.
Calling it breakfast was generous.
He had made eggs so dry they could have been used to patch drywall.
The kids ate them anyway.
Wren thanked him after every few bites.
By seven, Maura was furious.
Not loud furious.
Cold furious.
The kind she used when she wanted me to feel like a failed daughter without giving me the satisfaction of a direct attack.
“I found a family motel on the east side,” she said. “They want payment upfront.”
I poured coffee into a mug.
“How much?”
She told me.
It was nearly my entire savings.
The money I had scraped together from diner shifts.
The money for textbooks, bus passes, uniforms, exam fees, and the emergency fund Mr. Gideon insisted every young person needed because “life enjoys throwing bricks through windows.”
“No,” I said.
