Then one night, late, I walked past Caleb’s bedroom on my way to my own and noticed that his light was still on, and his door was standing partly open, and without quite meaning to, I glanced inside.

Caleb was sitting on the floor with his back against his bed, and in his lap and spread on the carpet in front of him was money.

A thick stack of it, bills fanned out and stacked in little piles, far more cash than I had ever expected my thirteen-year-old to have in one place.

He was counting it, his lips moving slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration, a boy doing sums.

And the instant he sensed me in the doorway and looked up, his entire expression changed, transformed in a heartbeat from concentration into something that looked, unmistakably, like fear.