And why would they? Look at the home they’d built together over the last couple years. Even though they were only renting this singlewide in Indigo Hills, they’d put a lot of work into sprucing it up, using leftover materials from Henry’s job to make it their own. He’d ripped out the stained gray carpet and replaced it with a patchwork of hickory, walnut, and mahogany floorboards. He’d swapped out the original fridge and stove for appliances that had been headed for the landfill after a flip. Sure, they weren’t state of the art and didn’t quite match in color, but were still a major step up from the smoke-stained, Sputnik-era appliances that had come with the place. He’d salvaged a beautiful slab of granite that had cracked during delivery to replace the Formica counter that had run between their kitchenette and living room. They’d painted the walls and decorated them by hanging up a splash of antique Salvation Army mirrors, not out of vanity but for the illusion of extra space. From the ceiling they’d hung a battered yet intricate chandelier that reminded him of a hockey player’s smile. In the summer, he loved leaving the screen door propped, opening a direct sight line to a pergola made of cedar four-by-fours coiled in rope lights and the new flagstone patio, next to which he was already planning to build a swing set.

There were times he doubted whether he deserved such comfort. Like the bank teller, a poor kid trying not to look poor, Henry also felt like an impostor, merely posing as an adult. His history of self-harm didn’t seem compatible with the innocent glee he drew from the tasks of domesticity, from picking out bedsheets and testing out new recipes to all their home improvement projects or falling asleep side by side without even having sex. Couldn’t help but see them as a pair of kids playing house, a game he’d never previously played, let alone expected to enjoy.

But the ruse was over now. They’d been found out, and his old resolution to never be poor was dissolving. The collectors had snatched off their big-kid masks and come to levy all the dues of adulthood—plus interest.

An avalanche plunged through him. This frigid blast was either grief or terror or probably both. Michelle was scraping the last of the pie jam off the plate so intently that she didn’t notice him shivering right behind her.