I pressed my thumb against the loose edge of one sole.

“I make eleven dollars and forty cents an hour.

After taxes, gas, and now rent, I might have them by Christmas.”

“Make a budget.”

“That your birthday present to me?”

He set the cup upside down in the dish rack.

“Your birthday present is that you have a job and a place to live.”

I looked at him, waiting for the sentence to turn into something kinder.