Nate scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Lieutenant Dyson told me he’s retiring next year. He basically said the job’s mine if I can crack that murder case from a couple days ago.”

I gaped at him. “You can’t be serious. Josh is sick! He needs us. Both of us. If you take that case, we won’t ever see you.”

“If I get that promotion, I’ll get more pay and better hours. We’ll be able to pay off whatever we have to borrow.”

“Sitting at a desk all day doing paperwork? Come on, Nate, you’d hate that!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not about me, it’s about Josh.”

Tears stung my eyes. I bit my lip, hard, the coppery taste of blood prickling in my mouth. But it was better than useless, pointless tears.

It was an impossible situation. We did need the money, but Josh needed his father too. I needed my husband.

I touched his hand. “We need money now, Nate. Not next year.”

A flash of panic glinted in Nate’s eyes. “I can do this,” he insisted stubbornly. “I can provide for my family.”

“Stop with the misogynistic bullshit,” I snapped, losing patience. Nate was so used to being responsible for everybody, providing for his mom, his brothers and sister, the people of our community. I’d found it endearing when we first met. But he couldn’t provide for Josh by getting a promotion next year. “It isn’t up to just you. We’re in this together.”

Nate shook his head, and the air between us tightened. I stared at my husband, a dark swirl of horror winding through me. I’d always thought the best couples should complement each other, like peanut butter and jelly, cookies and milk. Nate was all sunshine and hope, while I was the realistic pragmatist. But together we made a balanced whole.

Now, though, he was engaging in blind denial when I needed certainty. I could see that Nate wasn’t going to offer me that.

We’d reached an impasse.

DARK, ANGRY-LOOKING clouds were moving in from the west, pushing toward the mountains and hovering over town. I could smell the rain in the air. A gust of wind swept up a handful of leaves and slapped them against my ankles.

It was lunchtime, a crowd of doctors, anesthesiologists, and nurses gathered outside the staff entrance smoking and chatting as I hurried past. People thought that medical professionals didn’t have vices. That we were these omnipotent, perfect people with Madonna-like serenity. That we didn’t take antidepressants and never needed something as taboo as a line of coke to stay up studying for the board exams while moonlighting to make enough money to pay our bills at the same time. But I could say from experience, doctors were humans. We had vices like everybody else.