Hannah began crying in the bedroom behind us, a thin, piercing sound that bounced off the bare plaster walls of the hall.

“Then leave me your truck keys,” I said, stepping right between him and the brass front doorknob.

“And leave some cash on the hall table.

I have to pick up baby acetaminophen at the grocery store before eight.”

Jason laid his right hand on the deadbolt.

“My wallet’s staying in my pocket,” he said.

“There’s no cash at all in my purse, Jason,” I said quietly, my thumb digging into the blue vein on my left wrist.

“You quit putting money into the joint household fund three months ago.”