Amina opened her worn purse and took out an envelope.

Five thousand dollars.

“This is everything I saved,” she said, “selling desserts I baked and doing people’s tax returns at two in the morning.

I’ll pay half — because in spite of everything, I don’t want you to die.

You can get the other half from the family you always put ahead of us.”

I have thought since about that envelope, and about what it measured.