Enough to sting.
Enough to remind him that he had started the day too quickly.
His nine-year-old Son noticed immediately.
The boy noticed everything.
“You used the dish towel.”
The Single Dad looked toward him.
“So?”
“You only use the dish towel when you don’t want me to see blood.”
“There’s no blood.”
“Then show me.”
The Single Dad held up his hand.
Red across two fingers.
The Son frowned.
“That’s a burn.”
“Yes.”
“You should put cream on it.”
“After breakfast.”
“You say that about everything.”
The Single Dad looked at the eggs.
“Eat.”
The Son ate.
For approximately twelve seconds.
Then:
“Are we broke?”
The Single Dad stopped.
Children could take your heart out of your chest with one sentence.
“No.”
The Son chewed.
“Are we almost broke?”
The Single Dad looked at him carefully.
“Why?”
“You were doing numbers at the table last night.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re broke.”
“You only do numbers at night when they’re bad.”
The Single Dad sat across from him.
“We’re okay.”
The boy studied his face.
“Okay like actually okay?”
“Yes.”
“Or adult okay?”
The Single Dad nearly smiled.
“What’s adult okay?”
“When you say okay but your eyebrows look worried.”
The Single Dad rubbed his face.
“We’re actually okay.”
That was mostly true.
A contractor owed him four hundred dollars.
Two jobs had canceled.
The truck needed tires.
The water heater made a sound he had not yet decided to investigate.
But rent was paid.
Food was there.
Electricity on.
His son safe.
That counted as okay.
The call from the CEO came at 6:11.
She wanted somebody there immediately.
He told her eight.
She sounded like a person who considered eight already late.
He understood people like that.
They had calendars where every empty fifteen-minute block looked like a failure.
He dropped his Son at school.
The boy stepped out.
Then leaned back through the door.
“Don’t work on the burn.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
The Single Dad looked at him.
His late wife had made the same face.
“Go to school.”
The boy closed the door.
The Single Dad waited until he disappeared inside.
Then drove toward Whitfield Hollow.
By eleven thirty, the first new footing was dug.
The CEO had disappeared inside after approving the revised estimate.
The Single Dad preferred that.
Clients watching work could make simple jobs take twice as long.
At 11:42, someone appeared near the patio.
Not the CEO.
A girl.
Twelve, maybe.
The Daughter stood with her arms folded.
Dark eyes.
Her mother’s posture.
Her mother’s habit of observing before speaking.
“You removed all three.”