On the small telephone table near the stairs sat the white grocery envelope where I kept the cash for the weekly milk and bread. I pulled the envelope toward me, my fingers catching on the rough paper seam.
Harper followed me, her steps silent in her rubber-soled shoes. She stood three feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, her right hand still buried near her collarbone.
I reached inside the envelope and withdrew two twenty-dollar bills, their green ink slightly faded from the bank drawer. The bills felt thin and dry between my fingers.
“This is the last of the cash for the week,” I said, holding them out. “I will need the receipt if there is change.”
“There won’t be change,” Harper said, snatching the bills from my palm.
She did not look at my eyes as she took the money. She slid the folded bills into the front pocket of her windbreaker and turned toward the stairs.
“Harper,” I said.
She paused on the first step, her back to me, her hand resting on the wooden banister.
“Be home by eleven,” I said. “The roads get slick when the temperature drops.”
“I will,” she said, without turning around.
The front door opened and closed, and the quiet of the house returned, thick and immediate. I stood by the telephone table for a long moment, my hand resting on the empty white envelope.
By eleven o’clock, the wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the living room window. I sat on the edge of the armchair, my hands clasped in my lap, watching the red digital numbers on the microwave clock in the kitchen.
11:00 PM.
The street outside was dark, the amber streetlights casting long, distorted shadows across our small front lawn. No headlights turned into the driveway.
