The cake was dry around the edges, the way gas station cake always is.

The frosting was sweet enough to make my teeth hurt.

“You could’ve gotten a better cupcake at the bakery on High Street,” I said.

“The bakery charges four dollars and fifty cents.

This was two forty-nine.”

“Since when does Charles Wilson count his pennies?”

He tapped the notebook.

“Since I started writing down what things cost.” I looked at the notebook.