He had spent forty-eight dollars and twelve cents on premium fuel, paid with our joint Visa card.
I folded the receipt into a small, tight square and slipped it into my pocket. The paper felt like a physical weight against my thigh as I locked the car and walked back to the house.
The bedroom was dim when I went upstairs. Jason was already asleep, his breathing slow and heavy, his back turned toward my side of the bed.
I sat at the small writing desk in the corner, keeping the small desk lamp on its lowest setting.
I opened the bottom drawer and reached under a stack of old stationery to find the blue leather-bound journal I had bought three years ago. I had intended to use it for garden planning, but the pages had remained entirely empty until now.
With a black ballpoint pen, I carefully copied the details from the Mobil receipt.
I wrote the date, the exact time, the location, and the amount charged to our joint account.
My pen made a soft, scratching sound against the thick paper.
