“You can,” I said. “You will. They’re already paid for, and I got a deal because I told Hunter at the register I liked his name.” She laughed, a small, surprised sound, and tears rose like a tide. “Look, I know it’s weird. But sometimes people gave me things when I needed them. And it saved me in ways they probably don’t even remember.”

“I can’t pay you back,” she said, voice going thin, like she was bracing to be told the rules.

“You’re not meant to.” I slipped a fifty from the zip pocket in my wallet—the one I call the “just in case” pocket, meant for gas when you forgot to check the gauge, meant for kids who grow out of shoes overnight. It was earmarked for new curtains. It suddenly felt like the ugliest possible thing to buy. “This is for diapers or formula or whatever that pumpkin needs. Consider it… interest the universe owes you.”