It was crumpled into a tight, defensive shape behind the door, smelling faintly of the damp pine needles that clung to our front porch.
It was the same jacket she had worn the night before when she came home late, her hair still damp and her eyes rimmed with red.
She had slipped past me in the hallway without her usual brief greeting, retreating to her bedroom before I could ask about her evening.
I picked the jacket up, intending to hang it on the brass hook in the hallway closet where it belonged.
But the right pocket sagged, pulling the stiff corduroy fabric down with a heavy, distinct drag that caught my attention.
My fingers slipped inside the cold lining, expecting to find her keyring or the silver lip balm she carried everywhere.
Instead, my knuckles brushed against three crumpled single bills and a small, crisp piece of folded paper that did not feel like a receipt for food.
