“Nine hundred and twenty dollars with tax.”

“Nine hundred dollars?” I walked into the room.

“Brent, you don’t even have a job.”

“I’m building a digital portfolio,” Brent said.

He rapped his knuckles on the sofa frame again.

“A man can’t compete in tech these days with junk gear from five years ago.”

“On Tuesday you asked me for forty dollars for gas,” I said.

“Don’t start in on him the second you come through the door, Naomi,” Margaret said.