His mother folded the paper when William entered.
He had already seen the figures.
“Is that what we owe?”
“It’s what I am sorting out.”
He set his wages on the table. There were fewer coins than he had expected when the work began.
She unfolded the paper again.
Together they counted. Rent first. Food after that. A sum William did not recognise, written beneath an older sum that had been crossed through.
“Why has it gone up?”
“For having it longer.”
He looked at the coins. Nothing had been added to them.
His mother pressed the heel of her hand against her eye, then reached for the smallest coin and moved it back towards him.
“For tomorrow.”
He left it where it was.
For a while, there were arrangements. A little now. The rest next week. A visitor who kept his hat on indoors and spoke quietly enough that William had to stand near the door to hear.
Then there was no next week his mother could arrange.
After her death, the room still contained things she had meant to do. A garment turned inside out. A cup beside the basin. The paper, folded along the same soft crease.
The collector asked for her, then asked William’s age.
William did not answer.
The man looked around the room as though adding up what remained.
That night William packed what he could carry. He took the needle from the unfinished seam and wrapped it carefully.
He left before morning.
The folded paper stayed on the table.
