Halfway down the page, a typed line read: Four-foot mahogany pediatric casket, zinc-lined interior, dual lockable latch assembly.

The total at the bottom came to nine hundred and eighty dollars.

The heavy fire door between the house and the garage banged open against the drywall.

Julian hurried across the concrete floor, his rubber-soled boots squeaking over the oil stains.

He yanked the receipt out of my fingers before I could flip the page over.

His fingers went to his left wrist and pulled the leather strap of his watch tight against his skin twice in a row.

“Mom, you’re reading regular receipts and inventing stories,” he said.