My father paused for one second to wipe sweat from his eyes.
Lauren clicked her tongue, stretched out one foot, and kicked the broom handle from his hands.
“Watch it, old man,” she snapped. “You’re getting dust on my new sandals. Finish the driveway, or you don’t get dinner tonight. I’m not feeding freeloaders.”
Carol laughed.
“Honestly, Lauren, you have the patience of a saint. These people are like servants, except they’re useless.”
A ringing filled my ears.
The freezing nights, the hunger, the $42 in my account, the years of sacrifice—it all hardened inside me into something cold and violent.
My duffel bag slipped from my hand and hit the gravel.
Lauren turned, ready to scream at whoever had interrupted her afternoon. Then she saw me.
For five seconds, nobody moved.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. My mind became terrifyingly clear.
Lauren’s shoes: expensive.
Shopping bags: thousands of dollars.
My wire transfer twelve hours earlier: $3,500 for my father’s medicine.
The math was simple.
