“So does the person giving us these gifts show up at our door or something?”

“Of course,” she said with amusement on her face. “They have Christmas dinner with us.”

“Are we even having Christmas dinner?”

“We’ll see.”

“Last one didn’t go so well.”

“Don’t be such a smart aleck.”

Thomas laughed. ‘’That’s not what Dad calls me.”

“We won’t have that kind of language in this house. Not anymore. Look—I gotta go. Are you still going to see about that job?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t give me that tone.”

Thomas sighed. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying.”

“You haven’t been trying hard enough.”

“I’m going today.”

“Good. I’ll be home a little after dinner.”

“What time?”

She looked at him, her eyebrows wrinkled and her expression surprised. “I don’t know—do I have a curfew?”

“Last time ‘a little after dinner’ ended up being ten o’clock.”

“That’s why you need a job. Then you can afford to get a cell phone that I can call.”

“Maybe I’ll put that on my list.”

“You might be surprised at what you get.”

He wanted to tell her that he doubted it but instead he said good-bye and watched her open the door and leave. Here he was again, the man of the house. He wasn’t quite a man yet and this wasn’t quite a house, but close enough. Sara was at a friend’s, a friend who probably had cable and Internet and video games. Thomas only had his latest Dennis Shore novel, but that would tide him over.

He liked reading horror stories about families much worse off than them. It made him appreciate all they had, even if it wasn’t very much.

Blood still stained his Nikes.

Thomas noticed it as he glanced down while waiting for the Bi-Lo manager to come back. He’d forgotten to get the blood out after Vic had nailed his nose a week ago. Thankfully there hadn’t been any new run-ins with Vic since.

Item number one on Mom’s secret Santa list: new basketball shoes.

He wondered what would happen if he got a pair of generic shoes like the food in their pantry. Not Nike or Reebok but a new brand called Niebok! “Same cushion for a third of the price.”

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Mom said that often and he knew what she meant. Any kind of new shoes would be better than the ones he had, which were falling apart and bloody.

“Sorry for making you wait,” Mr. Chandler said when he returned. “Weekend after Thanksgiving’s always crazy.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s Tom, right?”

He nodded. He let people call him Tom just to make things easier.

The balding guy scanned him in the dismissive way most adults did.

He’d actually combed his hair today but maybe that was the problem. It had been a while since he’d gotten a haircut, but since his mom cut his hair, it was like choosing between bad hair and a bad haircut. Thomas had worn his best jeans and one of the only button-down shirts he owned. But he still had an idea of what he looked like—shabby.