Hannah was wailing against my left collarbone while Nora gnawed on my shoulder, her hot little forehead pressed tight to my jaw.

I had forty-two dollars left in my coat pocket, and the white plastic tub of formula in the kitchen pantry was down to its last two scoops.

At five thirty, the front door of our one-story house on Birch Street swung open, bringing in a gust of cold autumn rain and the thick smell of wet sawdust.

Jason tossed his brass truck keys onto the little oak mail table by the door.

They hit with a loud clatter right on top of an unpaid city water bill and three five-dollar gas receipts from the Chevron on Fairview Avenue.

“They’ve both had thirty-eight-degree fevers since noon,” I said, rubbing the thin blue skin inside my left wrist with my right thumb.

He didn’t hold out his arms for either one of his six-month-old daughters.

He unbuttoned his canvas work jacket and threw it over the arm of the couch, letting a fine haze of white drywall dust sift down into the dark blue fabric.

“I framed four hundred feet of exterior wall today out in the cold mud,” he said, unlacing his leather boots without looking up at me.

“Could you hold Nora for twenty minutes so I can go scrub the bottles?” I asked.

“She’s been crying since four.”

Jason lifted his left arm and tapped the glass of his wristwatch twice with his thumb, never once looking down at the numbers on the face.

“I was on my feet for ten hours straight,” he said, his voice flat and cold.

“I’m not walking into a domestic circus the second I come through my own front door.”

“Marcus told me the framing crew wrapped up early today,” I said, holding Hannah closer as she whimpered into my neck.

“My father doesn’t run my schedule,” Jason snapped, setting his muddy boots down by the heat vent.

“I run it.”

He shoved past us without another word, his wet socks leaving damp marks along the beige carpet of the living room hall.