Several times now, Henry’d threatened to strip her name from their joint checking account, but couldn’t. In spite of all the broken promises, yelling matches, and castaway ultimatums, he was still too scared of losing whatever fragments were left of her. After his time away, he owed her patience. It was only fair, a score to be settled by compassion. It wouldn’t be right to carry out any of his post-argument caveats, such as changing the locks or cutting her off financially, not even from these scraps.

And these were the last of them, the scraps. This paycheck. The final paid eighty hours of his life, after taxes. A year ago, the PO had warned Henry that this gold-plating gig wouldn’t last. Places like these were closing left and right, so Henry had better keep an eye out for other job options before the day came—probably a Friday, a payday, now that they’d dismembered the union—when management announced a move across the southern border or to the other side of the Pacific.

Still cushioned by the initial shock of the news, Henry hadn’t detonated just yet. With the paycheck dangling at his side like a white flag, he stepped out of the truck and crossed the parking lot to the bank. November was slicing into his jacket, trying to cut him down. He fought to stay upright, even though he couldn’t work up the nerve to cut Michelle loose, just like he hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to join Lucius, not even an hour ago. Too meek, too scared to pick up that second fire-axe and swing.

The bank teller with the impostor’s polish had apparently escaped the plains, had probably moved on to bigger and better things. Henry was still right here. Here in this beige-walled credit union, here in this beige fucking town. Even this replacement teller was as beige and unremarkable as their surroundings. Henry didn’t bother with a greeting. Didn’t say a word about Michelle’s access to the account, either. Just signed and slid the check across the counter. The printed balance statement read the exact sum of the check itself: $576.17. Michelle had not only cleaned out their account down to the very last cent—there was also a pending thirty-dollar overdraft fee, which he couldn’t afford to approve paying off right now. To keep track of his worth, down to the penny, he carefully folded the statement and slid it into his front pocket.

Calculations crunched through his mind like a mouthful of gravel. It was time to go home. Time for household management, not so much economics as damage control.