It felt as if a fault line cracked open through my chest as I slid it across the glass counter.

The pawnbroker gave me forty dollars. It was an insult to the heirloom, but to me it was a lifeline.

I used the money for a modest grocery-store cake and a small book about constellations.

And then I saw it, hanging on a clearance rack in a department-store window: a soft navy-blue long-sleeved shirt with a tiny, perfect silver moon embroidered near the breast pocket.

It cost twelve dollars. I should have saved the money for the electric bill. I knew it.

But I imagined Nolan’s face, and for once I wanted to give him something that hadn’t been previously worn, outgrown, and donated by a stranger. I bought it.