Five minutes ago, that would have made him happy enough to sing, but right now he could barely see straight. He let her in and dashed back to the bedroom with the dawn light streaking across the floor. “I’m sorry the food isn’t ready. There’s bread for toast, though, and leftover pot roast in the fridge. It’s no kind of breakfast, I know, but it’ll get you started, anyway.” He pulled a suitcase off the top shelf of his closet in an avalanche of other stuff, then opened a drawer in his dresser and grabbed everything in it.

“You’re leaving.”

He glanced back, and she stood in the doorway of his bedroom, looking terribly small. Exactly the way she had last night when he left her. He stopped, a pair of boxers dripping off the top of the pile he held. They fell across the toe of his boot. “I’m sorry, Andra. I know I said we’d talk this morning, but I’ve got to go.” All the time he was messing with French toast recipes, he should have been thinking of what to say. Because here was his chance to set things right, and he had no idea how to do it. Instead, he clutched at what he did know. “My mama’s sick.” His insides wrenched, because saying the words aloud made them feel way too real.

“Um, okay.”

He dumped the boxers into the suitcase and ripped open another drawer, that odd jangling feeling returning to his head. “I tried to call her this morning, but her phone was disconnected.” The next drawer banged out so hard it came off the rails. He had to take a second to thread it back in, hoping he hadn’t broken the dresser. God knew he didn’t have the money to spare right now. “I called the restaurant, and they said she’s been out sick for almost two weeks.” He punched down the mound of jeans, trying to make them fit inside the suitcase.

“Two weeks?” Andra’s voice sounded worried now, and only then did he realize she hadn’t believed him before.

He swallowed. “My mama will go to work even when she’s too weak to cook. They’ll let her man the cash register, because she can set up on a stool and hold herself steady on the counter, even when her ankles swell all the way to her knees.” He looked up at Andra, at her wide green eyes, and his stomach twisted. He should be reassuring her, not dumping his problems on her, but the more he thought about his mama sick and alone, the more frantic he got. “She’s not even going to work right now. I have to go home.”

She was already nodding as she stepped forward. “Right, of course. Can I help you pack? What do you need?”