“I know,” he said.

The television stayed off while we sat on the living room rug.

I spread our monthly bills across the scratched wooden coffee table, separating the utility statements from the credit card receipts.

The Kearney water bill sat next to a stack of grocery receipts from the local market, every slip of paper standing for money we couldn’t save.

“If we skip the summer vacation, we can offer him a thousand dollars a month,” I said, writing the number on a yellow notepad.

“Maybe eleven hundred if we eat rice and beans twice a week.”