At that, she felt an aching sense of sorrow expand in her chest. She would miss him so much, but he needed help. Because of her father, she knew what nightmares and sadness and a lack of sleep could do to a person, what a toxic combination that could be. What kind of friend would she be if she cared more about herself than him?

I’ll miss you, she wanted to say back to him, but what was the point? Words didn’t help.

*   *   *

AFTER MATTHEW LEFT, January got darker. Colder.

“Leni, would you set the table for dinner?” Mama asked on a particularly cold and stormy night, with wind clawing to get in, snow swirling. She was frying up some Spam in a cast-iron skillet, pressing down on it with her spatula. Two slices of Spam for three people was all they had.

Leni put down her social studies book and headed for the kitchen, keeping her eye on Dad. He paced along the back wall, his hands flexing and fisting, flexing and fisting, shoulders hunched, muttering to himself. His arms were stringy and thin, his stomach concave beneath his stained thermal underwear top.

He hit his forehead hard with the heel of his palm, muttering something unintelligible.

Leni sidled around the table and turned into the small kitchen.

She gave Mama a worried look.

“What did you say?” Dad said, materializing behind Leni, looming.

Mama pressed the spatula down on a slice of Spam. A blob of grease popped up, landed on the back of her wrist. “Ouch! Damn it!”

“Are you two talking about me?” Dad demanded.

Leni gently took her father by the arm, led him to the table.

“Your mother was talking about me, wasn’t she? What did she say? Did she mention Tom?”

Leni pulled out a chair, eased him into it. “She was talking about dinner, Dad. That’s all.” She started to leave. He grabbed her hand, pulled so hard she stumbled into him. “You love me, right?”

Leni didn’t like the emphasis. “Mama and I both love you.”

Mama showed up as if on cue, put the small plate of Spam alongside an enamel bowl of Thelma’s brown-sugar baked beans.

Mama leaned down, kissed Dad’s cheek, pressed her palm to his face.

It calmed him, that touch. He sighed, tried to smile. “Smells good.”

Leni took her seat and began serving. She poured herself a glass of watery, powdered milk.

Mama sat across from Leni, picked at her beans, pushed them around on her plate, watching Dad. He muttered something under his breath. “You need to eat something, Ernt.”

“I can’t eat this shit.” He swept his plate sideways, sending it crashing to the floor.