The blue plastic scoop hit the bottom of the formula can with a dry scraping sound that meant we had half a feeding left.

Linda reached past my shoulder, took the ring of keys off the brass wall hook, and dropped them straight into her cardigan pocket.

“I need the Toyota all afternoon,” she said.

I adjusted my watch strap, pulling the leather buckle one notch tighter against my wrist.

“Noah needs two cans of liquid concentrate before his midday feeding,” I said. “The bank app cleared the three-hundred-eighty-dollar monthly car loan payment from my business account at six this morning.”

Linda folded her arms tightly across her chest.

“Someone in this house has to teach responsibility,” she said.

She turned on her heel and walked out toward the back hallway.

I scraped the last of the pale powder into the yellow bottle, screwed the nipple ring down tight, and shook it until the bubbles rose to the top.

Noah sat in his wooden high chair by the window, reaching both arms out toward me with a short grunt.

I fed him sitting on the low stool by the radiator, counting his swallows until the plastic bottle clicked empty.

At ten past ten, I found Ethan standing in the living room by the front coat closet.

He had his hands deep in his pockets, his thumb visibly working the empty metal split ring on his belt loop.

“Your mother took the heavy key ring with the silver fob,” I said.

Ethan cleared his throat twice before looking up from the carpet.

“She has an errand in town,” he said.

“The grocery store on Route 9 is four miles past the town line,” I said. “Noah has three ounces of formula left in the refrigerator.”

“She said we can talk about the driving schedule when she gets back around five,” Ethan said.

“We pay three hundred eighty dollars a month for that car out of my client earnings,” I said.

Ethan glanced toward the kitchen archway, then lowered his voice.

“We’re living in her house without paying rent while I wait on these callbacks,” he said.

“I’m not starting a fight over two hours of driving time.”

“He eats at twelve,” I said.

Ethan ran his thumb along his empty belt loop again and turned his shoulder toward the window.

“Take Noah for a little walk down the sidewalk,” he said.

“It’ll keep him calm until she gets home.”

I went back upstairs to the guest room, packed two spare diapers, a pack of wipes, and my wallet into my canvas tote bag, and strapped Noah into the cloth chest carrier.

His eleven-month-old weight pulled solid and heavy against my ribs as I stepped out onto the front porch steps.

The morning air smelled of damp leaves and diesel exhaust from the county line highway two blocks over.

Ethan didn’t look out through the screen door as I turned down the gravel path toward Elm Street.

My sneakers kicked up fine gray dust along the edge of the asphalt.

Town was three miles east down Route 9, past the gas station and the farm supply warehouse.

Noah babbled against my collarbone, his fingers twisting the strap of my canvas tote while I kept a steady pace along the shoulder.

A heavy gravel truck rattled past, pushing a cold blast of wind that threw dust into the weeds beside the drainage ditch.

I took three long steps off the dark pavement to give the truck room.