“Go ask him why two hundred dollars went to a beauty parlor while his daughter is digging through thrift store racks.”

My phone buzzed against my hip inside my purse.

I took it out and looked at the bright screen under the edge of the table.

It was a text from Darla, Rory’s mother.

It was only six words, but I knew it had taken her several minutes to write.

Darla always held her flip phone five inches from her nose and typed with her right index finger, hitting each key with a slow, heavy thump as if she were pounding an old typewriter.

*Did Rory bring those tires over?* it said.