Ben turned to me, holding the ten-dollar bill up to the sunlight, his taped track shoe resting on the edge of a corn crate.

“That makes thirty-eight dollars total, Mom,” Ben said, his eyes bright.

“The track shoes at the hardware store are forty-two dollars with tax.”

“One more car will do it,” I said.

My phone buzzed against my hip, the screen showing Mark’s cell number, followed right away by a text that read: Call me now.

I swiped the screen and held the phone to my ear without saying anything.

“Nora, this is beyond ridiculous,” Mark said, his voice stripped of all its charm and replaced with a sharp, clipped edge.