“It’s worth eighteen.”

“It’s worth eighteen in Denver in April,” he said.

“It’s worth four here in November, and you need it today.”

And I said, “Why do you say that?”

And Marcus Teague spat into the shavings and said: “Because Harold told my wife you’ve been buying the soy formula.”

The heating oil was three weeks overdue.

The pediatric clinic in Georgetown had sent a second notice.

There was eleven dollars in my wallet.