Under the kitchen fluorescent light yesterday, Mark had gone through that receipt line by line, pointing out two jars of peanut butter and asking why I couldn’t wait for coupons.

“We have to wait two weeks for the next harvest contract check,” I said.

“We can’t buy them today, Ben.”

Ben looked down at his feet.

He didn’t argue, complain, or ask a second time.

He set his shoe flat on the linoleum, opened the bottom utility drawer next to the stove, and took out a fresh roll of black electrical tape.

I watched his small hands wrap three tight strips around the split toe of his shoe, pulling the dark tape firm until the loose canvas lay flat against the rubber edge.