Her hands slowly sank into her lap, palms pressed flat against her knees, fingers stiff.

She didn’t reach for a pen.

A harsh, dry breath escaped her throat, and her shoulders caved inward toward her chest.

Wet tracks ran down the deep lines around her mouth and darkened her gray collar as she cried without making a sound.

“I have nothing left to pay the credit union with on the first of February,” she whispered to the rug.

“You’ve got your pension,” I said.