The weekend was a series of small negotiations with hunger.

I split Mrs.

Avery’s leftovers between two meals, fed the girls what remained of their formula, and borrowed enough change for the bus on Monday with the promise that I would pay her back after work.

She waved away the promise.

I insisted anyway.

Pride can be impractical, particularly when a person has so little else that belongs entirely to her.

At school, I fell asleep briefly in the library with an accounting textbook open beneath my cheek.