They ate the oatmeal side by side. Jack signed the permission slip and put it in Matty’s backpack. He warmed Matty’s coat by the fire and held it out for Matty to reach in his arms, and then he zipped it up. He watched Matty wait for the bus and watched him get on and watched the bus rattle down the road. When it disappeared over the hill, he still watched. All he could think was that he’d lied to Matty. They weren’t all right. They had thirteen dollars and thirty-six cents. They had a foreclosure notice in the kitchen drawer and a broken water heater and an empty pantry and a dad in prison and a mom under the snow in the backyard.

He sat at the kitchen table and listened to the clock above the oven tick. “You need a plan,” he said. “You damn well need a plan.”

Everything depended on money. If he had money, he could buy food. Milk. Bread. He could pay bills. A job meant money, so he would get a job. Where? Somewhere in town. He’d have to make it happen. Find a way. But there was school to think about. He’d be missed if he didn’t go to school. And he couldn’t be missed. Being missed meant Child Services. Nope. Not an option. They will take Matty. They will take Matty.

So.

School.

Then job.

And what will you do with Matty while you’re at work?

No answer.

The clock ticked. Counting down the seconds to some invisible zero moment. Each tick louder than the one before. Time moving in the narrow space between. Pulsing slowly. Blood from a wound.

His hands hurt, so he went up to the bathroom and bandaged the blisters. He combed his hair and brushed his teeth. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. Then he got in the Caprice and drove to school.

A substitute teacher talked about history. All the presidents over the years and who was best or worst. Jack stared out the window. Images in his head—they kept coming. He would not look at them straight on but instead saw sharp, fractured bits reflected off the backs of his eyelids. Incomplete pictures. Like pieces of a fallen mirror.

Her slipper on the carpet.

The knife in his hand. Cutting leather.

His eyes burned, and he closed them. He crossed his arms on the desk and shoved the images down to some unspoken place and leaned his forehead on his arms.

Go to the grocery store and then the diner. Gas stations next. Both of them. What will you say? I’m a hard worker, sir. I have no experience, but I work hard. I will do what you need. I’ll do it well, I swear, whatever you want—stock shelves or mop floors or clean toilets, I’ll work hard—

The bell rang.