“Every bill smelled like fryer oil.”

Down in the gravel driveway, a car door slammed shut with a metallic bang.

Kim and Jeff were standing by the back fender of Kim’s station wagon, their light jackets pulled tight against the evening wind.

Stacy was sitting in the front passenger seat with her door cracked open.

Kim walked up the three wooden steps to the porch with her right hand over her mouth.

“Nate,” Kim said, her breathless voice rushing through the words.