My husband Danny died on a Thursday in February at two-seventeen. Evan was only eight. That week, he told me he was the man of the house. I told him we would hold everything together as a team. Somehow, he understood those words as a reason never to ask for anything that cost real money. Five years later, when he mentioned wanting a bike and then started washing dishes at a diner on Saturdays, I felt proud and uneasy. He came home smelling like soap and fries, always smiling when I asked about his savings.

I ignored the bills stuffed inside his backpack, the mud on his sneakers, and the way his eyes dropped whenever he said his paycheck was somewhere safe. Then Victor Campos called one Saturday in March. He asked if I knew what Evan was doing with his money. I said he was saving for a bike. Victor told me to sit down. “Everything the boy tells you about that money is a lie.” Then I heard Evan shouting in the background, followed by a crash. “Get here now,” Victor said. “Your son tried to do it again.”