I hitched Hannah higher on my hip and followed him toward the back of the house, the silver baby monitor on the hallway shelf crackling with soft static from the empty nursery upstairs.

By six, twelve dirty plastic bottles were bobbing sideways in cold dishwater in the laminate kitchen sink.

A gray ring of dried formula clung to the neck of every bottle like hard lime scale.

Nora whimpered against my shoulder, her small knees kicking steadily against my stomach while I stretched for the bottle brush with my free hand.

Jason pulled open the refrigerator, stared at the empty top shelf where the milk usually was and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the plastic emergency-numbers magnet from St.

Luke’s Clinic.

“Look at this kitchen,” he said, turning around with his thick arms folded tight across his chest.

“It looks like a tornado blew through.”

“I’ve been holding two sick babies since three in the morning,” I said under my breath, letting my voice sink to a whisper the way it always did when heat began building in my throat.

“Other women handle two babies and still manage to keep the counters clean,” he said.

“A can of formula is thirty-two dollars now, Jason,” I said, pointing down at the bottles floating in the sink.

“The tub in the cupboard is totally empty, and the final shutoff notice for the electric bill came in this afternoon’s mail.”

“I work sixty hours a week framing houses to keep a roof over this family,” he said, stepping over a stack of folded cloth burp rags on the linoleum.

“I don’t come home from a job site to get grilled about every last nickel.”