I dipped the hanger into the sleeve and hooked it back onto the fence.

“Fifteen.” He sounded desperate.

I swiveled, giving him a sweet, slow smile. “Deal.”

I was ready. For all of it.

It was late by the time I got home. Kamal was already there, sitting cross-legged on the rug, watching TV. Maria Auntie had just picked him up from Derek’s since she was nearby, and then she left to walk dogs and close up a nearby laundromat. Maria Auntie may juggle a lot of jobs—I can’t keep track—but she always has time for us. Ammi texted to say she was on her way home too. I ducked into the bedroom to do my homework. When my stomach started to growl, I looked up. It was over an hour since her text—so not like her. To hold us over, I scrambled eggs with chili peppers and tomatoes that Kamal and I folded into naan. We were just finishing up when Ammi barged into the apartment.

“Ammi, we were starving—” I stopped. Her hair was a tumbled mess, sprung loose from its band; kohl smeared, her eyes two worried holes. Her clothes were creased and wrinkled. She set down a white bag of takeout, spotted with grease.

“So sorry, beta.” She kissed the top of Kamal’s head. “I got delayed.”

“But where—”

She brushed past me toward the bathroom. “There are kebabs. Rice, the way you like it. I’m going to take a shower.”

And then she slammed the door. I heard needles of water tinging on the tub, and a low warbling sound. Crying. I stared at the bag, my stomach twisting, anxious. The kebabs were cold, as if they’d been sitting around a long time. We ate in silence and still Ammi hadn’t come out. Great. That meant more chores for me—cleaning up, helping Kamal get ready for bed. I was about to tell her about my bookstore job, then stuffed it back down. I knew what she’d say: What about your responsibilities at home? Or worse, she’d show up and start chatting up Amirah about all the books she knew.

I fell asleep reading, and a few hours later, I startled awake. My novel had slid to the floor. Someone had switched off my lamp. A seam of light leaked under my door. Creeping out of bed, I found Ammi sitting at the dining room table, staring at the laptop screen. A cone of bluish light revealed all the grooves of her face.

Noticing me, she snapped the laptop shut, pushed some papers into an accordion file, and offered a bright, blank look. “Oh, darling, can’t sleep?”

“You okay?” I shuffled closer.

She took my hand, pressed it against her cheek. I was surprised at its warmth—the computer light made her skin look coated in ice, forbidding.

“Of course,” she whispered.

But I could hear it—the tiniest wrinkle in her voice.