“You,” she said when she found him on her doorstep. She looked up the street. “How is it you don’t own a car?” “I sold it,” he said. “I needed the cash.” He didn’t care how this sounded; at her age she’d probably heard everything. “For what? Alcohol?” “A conscience debt.” Why was he telling her this? “It didn’t work. Isn’t working.” “Money rarely does.” She said nothing more.
