The box split open at its taped seams and tumbled twelve feet into the wet rhododendrons beside the porch steps.

“I told you four times we’re not keeping that furniture,” David whispered, stepping in close enough that I could smell stale coffee on his collar.

“The crib was ninety-eight dollars on clearance,” I said, my right hand pressing flat against my breastbone.

“My sister paid for it.”

“You’ll take it back to the store tomorrow morning before nine,” he said, tapping his gold ring against the metal mailbox mounted next to the door frame.

“Where did our thirty-four thousand dollars go Tuesday?” I asked.