“A lot. Like more than the house is even worth.”

He sat next to me, his leg crooked, his body turned to face me. He leaned his face on his hand, watching. “What about the utilities?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

He pushed his hand up so that it held back his hair. He had a darkness under his eyes I’d never noticed in the car, and his cheekbones seemed sharp. I thought he’d lost weight. I inched closer, looking intently.

“Baby,” I said.

“It’s just not a good day,” he said.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“For me?” he said. “No. You can stay if you want.” I thought of Birdie sitting on the bed in the dark with my mother.

“It’s not just me,” I said.

His eyes went dark. “Your mother made these choices herself,” he said. “She can figure them out.”

“She can’t,” I said. “She literally cannot. If I leave her to it, she will just sit in that house without electricity or water until they auction it.”

“How is that your problem?” he asked.

“It just is,” I said. Her name formed behind my lips, but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t break the seal on the secret.

“You can stay,” he said again. “On the couch.”

I looked at the green velvet sofa and felt the corners of my mouth sink. It looked more comfortable than my twin mattress at home. It wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to rattle him, shake him up. Push him down.

“Put the house in your name,” he said then.

“How?” I asked.

“Is there a mortgage?” he asked.

“No.”

“Have your mother sign it over to you. It’s the least she can do.”

“Why?” I asked. It seemed like that would make it mine and mine alone.

“Because then you can take over the utilities,” he said, “and start from zero, and maybe you can do that with the taxes too. It’ll buy you time,” he said.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“I’m really good at buying time,” he said.

He walked into the bedroom and left the door open. I saw him untuck his shirt, unbutton it, lay it across the top of a ladder-back chair. And then his shoes, his pants. Out of my sight line, he changed into pajama bottoms but left his shirt off, his chest and stomach thatched with dark hair and his back covered in a tattoo of a sword that ran down the length of his spine and two wings that sprouted from his shoulder blades.

“Wow,” I said from the doorway. He brushed his teeth, and leaned over the sink to spit.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He took a chenille bedspread off the bed and got in between cool blue sheets. “Turn the light off,” he said. “There’s a blanket on the back of the couch.”

“Can I lie down?” I asked.

“On the couch,” he repeated.

“With you,” I said quietly. I leaned in the doorway to his bedroom, the light still on. He was covered up to his armpits, his arms out and folded over his chest. When he closed his eyes, I tried not to think of him lying in a casket, in blue satin instead of blue cotton.