A sharp crack came from the window, right above the sink where my hands were deep in greasy dishwater.
A small grey bird lay on the outer sill, its neck twisted, while a tiny spiderweb of fractures spread across the glass.
Brenda did not look up from the kitchen table.
She was staring at her reflection in the side of the metal toaster, smoothing her dark hair with both hands.
“They want me to work another double shift on Friday,” Brenda said, her voice rising over the rattle of the old refrigerator.
“Eight dollars an hour to stand on linoleum. I cannot keep doing this, Mother.”
I wiped my hands on the damp dish towel and adjusted my silver wedding band, sliding it up and down my knuckle.
“It is a job, Brenda,” I said. “We have the rent to think about.”
“It is not enough,” she said, tapping her long fingernails against the Formica.
“Ryan says there are people in this town making thousands a day just by being smart.”
I did not ask what Ryan meant by smart.
Her boyfriend had not paid his share of the electric bill in three months, and his boots were still cluttering the small hallway.
Instead, I looked back at the cracked window pane, where the dead bird’s wing fluttered once in the draft.
I walked down to the Elm Street gas station that afternoon because the milk carton in our fridge was completely dry.
I had only five dollars left in my purse after the twenty-eight dollar cost of the grocery trip at the market.
The station smelled of old oil and damp wool coats from the men waiting inside.
I poured a small cup of cheap gas station coffee to warm my hands.
The bitter taste was familiar, sharp enough to wake me up.
Wayne, the cashier with the tired eyes, was wiping down the counter when I set the gallon of milk down.
“That will be four dollars and ten cents, Mrs. Delgado,” he said.
I reached into my pocketbook and pulled out my very last five-dollar bill, crumpled and thin.
