“You’re five months pregnant and sitting at home on bereavement leave,” Arthur said, cutting me off before I could go on.

“Quit being so selfish while your family is trying to keep a roof over everybody’s head.”

I studied his face for three seconds without a word.

He had no idea I had the certified county lien copy tucked away in my leather bag.

By six that evening the front hallway was crammed with metal filing cabinets, supply crates and heavy office chairs.

Martha sat at the kitchen island with a silver spoon, stirring her coffee without end while the metal clicked against the ceramic in a soft rhythm.