“I work thirty-two hours a week at the dental clinic,” I said, my thumb pressing so hard into my index finger that the knuckle went white.

“Every last dollar goes to the house and the groceries.”

“Then work forty,” Rory said.

He cut me off before I could take another breath, sidestepping toward the glass exit doors.

“Sounds like your budgeting problem, not mine.”

“She’s taken good care of her old clothes for three years,” I said, catching hold of the sleeve of his heavy work coat.

“She isn’t asking for custom alterations or imported shoes.”