“I got the mail.”

“So?”

“Here.” Arlene crawls up over the back of the couch and hangs there like a baby stuck on a crib rail, unable to escape her prison. She waves the letter in front of her daughter’s face. “Acceleration clause, they say.”

Atlanta grabs the letter, sent from the local bank. Montour County First National. Adult problems, she thinks.

Most of it is stuff she can’t decipher. It’s about the house. That much is clear. And something about the mortgage payments. She sees phrases like “risk-adjusted rates” and “forbearance” and “loan modification terms.” Oh, and that one her mother just said:

Acceleration clause.

A lot of the details escape her. But she starts to get the gist. They want her to pay out the mortgage. Like, the whole thing. But if she pays ahead a little bit, they’ll “reinstate” the loan.

Reinstatement comes with higher rates. Or something.

She keeps reading.

Failure to do any of that means foreclosure. Atlanta’s not entirely sure what details orbit a foreclosure, but she sure knows the end result: sheriff comes and takes your house away, kicks your ass to the curb.

“Why?” It’s a simple question, but one Atlanta feels she has to ask. Seems this is coming out of nowhere.

“I’m behind,” is her mother’s answer. Atlanta feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight.

“What do you mean, ‘behind’?”

“Behind on payments. By three months.”

“Well, how the hell did that happen?” Atlanta can’t help but raise her voice. A minimovie of them being locked out of their home and drop-kicked into a drainage ditch starts playing through her head on an endless loop. “I mean, you do know you’re supposed to pay the bills, right? Not let ’em pile up like you’re trying to win a competition.”

Mama’s face goes red. “I tried to pay the damn bills, girl. But we also need to eat! And keep the electricity running! And last month the well pump shit the bed and I had to pay to get that replaced.” By now the woman’s nose is plugged with snot and her morning makeup is running down her face like mud streaking down a dirty car door after it crashes through a puddle. “You do like water, dontcha? Showers? Drinking?”

“Yeah, but none of that matters if we don’t have a house with a shower, does it? I mean, dang, I thought that would be the priority, Mama. What the hell?”

“The Internet said I wouldn’t be punished until I let it go six months or more. It’s only been three!” Her mother slides back to the sofa, crosses her arms. “It’s only been three. You don’t understand. We’re screwed. That’s all there is to it.”