At two in the morning my phone lit up on the nightstand.

It was an automated text from the joint account showing a balance of forty-two dollars.

I flipped the phone face down on the wood veneer and didn’t look at the screen again until morning.

The breakfast room downstairs smelled of stale coffee and scorched waffles.

I sat in a vinyl booth by the juice machine with my laptop open on the scratched Formica table.

David’s face popped up in a little square on my screen.