The smell of cold formula was still in the kitchen when the sun finally came up through the bare trees at seven. I stood at the stove, stirring two bowls of oatmeal with a wooden spoon, my left thumb constantly adjusting the collar of my shirt.
Ethan sat at the table, his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, his thumb flicking rapidly up and down.
“The children need more formula today,” I said, my voice slow and even. “It is thirty-two dollars for three cans of the brand the doctor recommended.”
He did not look up from the screen. “Use the grocery money from last week.”
“There is no grocery money left, Ethan,” I said.
Ethan set his phone face down on the table, the screen still glowing through the thin wood. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a glossy, three-fold brochure with bright blue water on the cover.
