Tuesday nights were always the same. Rice, chicken thighs, carrots, and half an onion stretched just far enough to make it through dinner and maybe into tomorrow’s lunch. As I chopped, I was already calculating—who would take less, what could be saved, which expense could wait one more week.
Dan came in from the garage, tired in a way that never really left his face anymore.
“Dinner soon, hon?”
“Ten minutes,” I said, still doing the math.
Three plates. Maybe a fourth if we were careful.
I was about to call them when the door burst open and Sam walked in—followed by a girl I’d never seen before.
