At eight on Monday morning I had to give the pediatric clinic a cash deposit for Noah’s asthma medicine.

Without the money at the counter, they wouldn’t hand over his monthly inhaler refill.

I stared at the screen as the backlight faded in my hand.

The bright red warning line stayed put on my phone screen, showing forty-two dollars in my account.

I tucked my phone back into my coat pocket and reached for the yellow jug of industrial degreaser on the bottom shelf in aisle three.

Marge Miller steered her shopping cart around the endcap by the paint cans.