Elliot didn't sleep that night.
He lay on his back, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling that ran from the corner above his dresser toward the light fixture. He'd traced it hundreds of times over the years, watching how shadows filled it differently depending on the time of day, the season, the state of the bulb.
Tonight, it looked deeper. Like it might split open if he stared long enough.
The wallet sat on his bedside table.
He hadn't taken the money out yet.
That was new.
Usually, he moved fast—separate the cash, ditch the evidence, erase the proof of the act before his mind could circle back and chew on it. This time, he'd left it untouched, as if delaying the inevitable could somehow soften it.
He rolled onto his side.
Just this once, he thought again.
Just until I get a job.
The phrase came with variations. It always had.
Just until things stabilize.
Just until I'm not a burden anymore.
Just until I can breathe.
Elliot had once been good with his hands. Not in a way that impressed people, but in a way that mattered. Fixing a leaky sink. Rewiring a lamp. Sharpening blades the old-fashioned way. He'd worked construction in his twenties, bounced between warehouses in his thirties.
Then the layoffs started.
Then the injuries.
Then the excuses.
His parents had taken him back in three years ago, quietly, without ceremony. His father hadn't hugged him. His mother had cried in the kitchen, the way she did when she didn't want to be seen.
They'd never said the word failure.
They hadn't needed to.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Elliot's breath hitched.
He listened as footsteps approached his door, slowed, then stopped. A shadow passed under the gap.
His mother's voice came through, soft but tight.
"Elliot?"
He didn't answer.
After a moment, the footsteps retreated.
He closed his eyes.
By morning, the guilt had curdled into something duller. More practical.
He counted the money in the bathroom with the fan running. Folded it into his sock. Threw the wallet into the trash bag beneath old fast-food wrappers and receipts.
He told himself not to think about the envelope.
Breakfast was quiet.
His father sat at the table reading the paper, glasses perched low on his nose. His mother moved between the stove and the counter, not quite meeting Elliot's eyes.
His aunt didn't come out of her room.
"You going out today?" his father asked without looking up.
"Yeah," Elliot said. "Got an interview."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He had applied online. Months ago.
His father grunted. "About time."
Elliot nodded and stood. He hesitated near the doorway.
"I'll—uh—I'll be back later."
His mother turned. For a second, it looked like she might say something. Then she smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Take care," she said.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp. Elliot lit a cigarette with shaking hands and took a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs until it burned.
Across the street, the neighbor's kid was waiting for the bus, backpack slung over one shoulder. He glanced at Elliot, then away.
That look—half curiosity, half dismissal—hit harder than Elliot expected.
They already know, he thought.
Even if they don't know.
The money weighed heavy in his sock as he walked.
He spent some of it that day. Food. Cigarettes. A cheap jacket from a thrift store he didn't need. Each purchase chipped away at something inside him, a quiet erosion that left him both relieved and sick.
By evening, he was back home.
The house was louder than usual.
His aunt's door was open. His mother stood in the hallway, pale. His father's voice came from the living room, sharp and angry.
"I counted it twice," his aunt was saying, her voice thin. "It was there yesterday."
Elliot stopped.
His heart began to pound.
His mother turned and saw him.
For a heartbeat, none of them spoke.
Then his father stepped into the hallway.
"Where were you?" he demanded.
Elliot opened his mouth.
No words came.
End of Chapter 2