“I was trying to surprise you.”
“You did. I thought the building was on fire.”
She laughed, then put a finger against her mouth, as though laughter might hurt him.
“Do you want cereal?” she asked.
“I want you to sit down and tell me whether blue cotton candy is actually better than pink.”
“I need more data.”
“That’s my girl.”
He cut the unburned edge from the toast and ate it. Sadie examined him while she poured the last of the milk into two bowls. She waited until he had sat before asking what had been worrying her.
“Are you going to work tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan.”
“With your leg?”
“With both of them, hopefully.”
“You said I could tell you if that was stupid.”
He glanced at her. “Did I?”
“At the fair.”
He had given the child permission to be honest, and she had remembered.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me.”
“I think you should see a doctor before you lift things.”
He stared down at the cereal. The sensible answer came from a person who did not yet know how easily an appointment could become a bill.
“You’re probably right,” he said.
“Is that a grown-up probably?”
“What’s a grown-up probably?”
“When you agree but you aren’t going to do it.”
George looked at her for a long moment. He wanted to say something clever. He did not have it in him.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
She accepted that provisionally. Then she slid the plate with the burnt toast toward him, as if the terrible breakfast might still be useful.
They ate together at the tiny table while sunlight climbed the opposite building’s brick wall. The pink notice remained on the refrigerator. Sadie glanced toward it once. George saw her, took the magnet off, and folded the paper into a drawer.
He would never forget the color. He hoped she eventually would.
Chapter Nine: Richard Davis Keeps a Ledger
The apartment complex had been built in the 1970s for workers at a factory that no longer existed. Its two low buildings faced a courtyard of tired grass, cracked walkways, and four trees whose roots had raised the concrete. The outside lights went out after midnight whenever the timer failed. The laundry machines ate quarters. Children chalked suns and flowers onto the stairs until rain washed them away.
George had moved there after Elena’s illness because it was what he could afford and because the elementary school was three blocks away. The place was not good, but it had become familiar. Sadie knew which stairs squeaked and which neighbors would give her a sticker when she brought in their mail. The apartment contained ordinary evidence of a life: a pencil mark on the kitchen doorframe measuring her height, photographs in unmatched frames, a cardboard box of Elena’s recipe cards, and a bookshelf George had repaired twice.
The building manager, Richard Davis, occupied a former laundry room on the ground floor. He wore short-sleeved shirts stretched across his middle and kept his office window shaded even on sunny days. The room smelled of stale tobacco and old carpet. A dented filing cabinet stood beside the desk, and an electrical fan clicked at every turn.
George came down at nine-thirty on Sunday, the white envelope tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. He had left Sadie with Mrs. Moreno, who lived across the hall and operated on the theory that no child should spend a summer morning indoors if there was a safe patch of courtyard to occupy.
“You look terrible,” Mrs. Moreno had said when George appeared at her door.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Your leg?”
“Complaining.”
“Then stop giving it reasons.”
He had almost smiled. Mrs. Moreno had been an emergency-room nurse for twenty-six years. Retirement had not reduced her interest in other people’s injuries or improved her patience with evasive answers.
Now George stood outside Richard’s office, one hand on the doorframe. He could hear the manager talking on the telephone.
“I know what the units are worth,” Richard was saying. “The roof is a different expense. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t just pretend the roof isn’t leaking.”
A pause. Then an irritated sigh.
“Fine. Tuesday. I’ll make the call Tuesday.”
He ended the conversation, looked up, and saw George.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite account overdue.”
George said nothing. Richard leaned back in the chair.
“Come to ask for another extension? Because I told you, Mercer. Monday means Monday. I got people breathing down my neck too. The sheriff—”
George placed the envelope on the desk.
Richard’s eyes narrowed. He lifted it with two fingers and looked inside. When he saw the bills, he sat upright. He counted them once, then again, touching each note to the edge of his thumb.
“Nine hundred.”
