“I can cover the printing.”

“No.

Hang on to your money.

But I might need your printer.”

At ten the kitchen light dimmed, brightened, then dimmed again, and the refrigerator motor wound down to nothing and then started back up.

I sat perfectly still and counted to six, and the light held.

The clock on the stove was blinking when I got up, and the little red dot on the smoke detector had gone dark.

I found the white candle in the drawer with the matches, the one I’d hauled from house to house ever since Fort Hood, and stood it in a saucer on the oak table.