Chapter 22: Ask Me

The first of the month fell on a Thursday.

I got off my shift at seven and did not go home.

I walked eight blocks in the cold to the hardware store on Fenner Street.

I went around the back to the outside stairs.

Eli's door was at the top, painted green, with a dent in it at kicking height.

I knocked.

He opened it in a gray T-shirt and old jeans, barefoot, with a mug in his hand.

His eyes went over my face and then down to my fist.

"It's the first," I said.

I opened my hand.

The dollar was folded in four.

I had ironed it flat that morning with the heel of my palm, which was ridiculous, and I did not care.

Eli put the mug down on the shelf by the door.

He took the bill from me with two fingers and unfolded it and looked at it for a long time.

"Hannah Doyle," he said, "paid in person."

"On time."

He put it in his shirt pocket, over his heart, and patted it once.

I came in and shut the door behind me.

The room was one square space under a slanted ceiling.

It had a narrow bed made with hospital corners and a hot plate.

His drawings were pinned to the wall above a small table.

On the windowsill stood Dad's red butterscotch tin, empty, with a pencil in it.

"I've never asked you for anything," I said.

"That's not true."

"I've never asked you for anything for me. I decided things. I decided the text. I decided you'd be better off."

I pulled off my coat and dropped it on the chair.

"So I'm asking."

He did not move.

"Go on."

"Stay put and let me come over there."

His throat worked.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

I crossed the floor and took his face in both hands.

The scar through his eyebrow was pale against his skin.

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