My heart pounded as I raced through the bills—twenties mostly—totaling $157, enough so that he might not notice if some went missing. I lifted out two twenties and placed the wallet back on the table just as I had found it, lined perfectly with his watch, beside the tower of change stacked from largest coins to smallest, all heads-up. I hurried out of the bedroom, finished dressing, and sped out of the apartment with a sense of relief, knowing I now had enough to survive the week. I bought a coffee and two breakfast sandwiches on my walk to the train and ate every bit of both of them.

4

On Friday morning Cathy entered my cubicle and casually dropped off my paycheck. As though there was nothing to it, and for her I suppose there wasn’t. But for me the sight of it caused my heart rate to double. I tore away the envelope and brought the check to my nose and inhaled it deeply. Freedom in the form of $411. I stared at it, continually picking it up to feel it between my fingers to be certain it was real. Then I rushed out and opened a checking account at the nearby bank even though it wasn’t lunchtime yet. I called Gene the second I returned to let him know I was coming straight over after work.

I shared my cubicle with a fifty-two-year-old thrice-divorcée named Linda. Our desks were situated on opposite sides so that our backs faced one another. Aside from Cathy, Linda was the only person I talked to at work, out of necessity at first, but then because I enjoyed her pert phone conversations and her scorn for the company that, after a few more weeks, I was sure my own would equal. She’d been there four years, lived alone in a house a mile away, and drank no less than eight cups of coffee a day, one an hour. Apparently she had scaled herself back from the twelve or so she used to consume. When I hung up the phone she was eyeing me.

“You okay?” she asked, amused. “You look like you’re about to wet your pants.”

“I just might, too,” I said. “That’s how brutal the past few weeks have been.”