On the laminate counter, next to my house keys, lay my monthly bank statement from the local branch. I did not need to open it to know what it said, but I reached out and smoothed the folded paper anyway. The balance on the summary page was a neat row of zeroes, a flat line of black ink that seemed to stare back at me under the kitchen glare.
I stood up and walked to the window, watching a city bus hiss past on Broad Street, its interior lights empty.
My phone remained silent on the counter, a black rectangle that seemed to draw all the quiet in the room toward itself.
The green school folder Noah had left behind was wedged between two boxes near the door. I picked it up, the cardboard cold in my hands, and ran my fingers along the plastic tab. Inside, there was nothing but a crumpled tax form from three years ago, a document Ellis had signed with his characteristic thick black pen.
I smoothed the page out on the counter, my fingers tracing the sharp, downward slope of his signature.
The radiator in the corner gave a sudden, sharp hiss, then went cold again.
I lay down on the mattress with my coat still on, the heavy wool offering the only comfort in the empty room. Every sound from the street seemed magnified, the squeal of brakes, the distant siren, the wind rattling the loose pane of glass in the kitchen window. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Noah standing in that courtroom, his shoulders stiff, his voice quiet but steady as he told the judge he wanted to live with his father.
He had looked at the floor the entire time, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
I had wanted to reach out, to touch his shoulder, but the bailiff had warned me to stay in my seat.
