“This is it,” the real estate agent said to LaTisha. Michael waited as his wife bent her scarf-wrapped head to read each page of the contract. The bones in the back of her neck stood out like a small mountain range. He wanted to do something to take his mind off the waiting, but he didn’t know what. The feeling was too familiar these days.

“Now you.” She slid the paper across the over-polished tabletop. There was a plastic flower taped to the expensive, heavy pen. Did they think he’d walk off with it?

The mortgage terms were crazy; nobody could afford that, certainly not on top of the medical bills. So? What was the worst possible outcome of signing this? That in a year, he and LaTisha would be standing on a streetcorner, panhandling side by side? God, he’d kill more than his credit rating for that.

He signed over and over until there were no pages left.

The agent smiled. “Congratulations on your first home.” She held out the keys and LaTisha cupped her hands to take them, cradling them like a baby bird.