We lean back on the ground and listen to Rainbow nibble bits of grass. I think not knowing what’s going to happen to him is even worse than not knowing what’s going to happen to me. Another tear leaks out the side of my eye. Then another. I don’t reach up to wipe them away, because I don’t want Micah to look at me and see that I’m crying again. So we both lie here, listening to Rainbow, quietly wondering what’s going to happen to all of us.

Chapter Nineteen

When Ivy finds us out back, both of our faces tear-soaked, she knows something’s up.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Mom locked herself in her bedroom and won’t come out. And you guys are crying. It’s not because you broke up, is it? It’s something worse.”

She has raspberry jam on the front of her shirt, and her bare legs are covered with dirt and scabs.

“Have you had a bath since the last time I checked?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“I don’t need a bath. We just went to the beach last night, remember?”

“How did you get so dirty in such a short time?”

Ivy shrugs. “I’ve got a new project going.”

“What kind of project?”

“A hole.”

“For what?”

“To get cool in. Do you know that’s why dogs dig sometimes? They dig a hole and sleep in it to stay cool.”

“Where did you dig this hole? How big is it?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just trust me that you’ll thank me next time it gets really hot. And stop changing the subject. Please tell me what’s going on.”

Rainbow comes up behind her and nuzzles her grubby hand. Ivy absently rubs his velvety muzzle but keeps her eyes on me.

“I don’t know much,” I say. “So what I tell you won’t be the full story, and you’re going to have a lot of questions I can’t answer. But we’ll find out soon.”

She nods.

“An official letter came from the bank today.”

“Is it about the house and the bills?”

“Yes.”

She nods again. “We can’t afford to stay in the house, can we?” she says quietly.

“No.”

Her lower lip quivers.

“Ivy, it’s going to be OK.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes. We aren’t sick. We aren’t dying. We’re losing our house.”

The words sound pathetic. Putting things in perspective is supposed to help. So why does this still feel just as dire as being horribly sick? What if we become homeless? What if we lose everything?

Ivy wobbles on her spindly legs as the grief settles into her body. She looks around the yard, and back toward the house, and then at Rainbow.

“But what will happen to us?” she asks. “What will happen to Rainbow?”