Maggie’s in the kitchen, whisking eggs. She drops them in the frying pan. Their smoky sibilance drowns out the hearings on the radio.

A creak in the floorboard overhead. Maggie glances at the clock: ‘8:00’ hovers above ‘December 1’. She moves the cooked eggs onto a dish, sets a napkin, fork, glass of juice. The radio is heard clearly again. Sondland’s on the stand, Jim Jordan’s talking fast.

Maggie’s son Josh pulls up a chair, sits at the kitchen counter. He drinks the juice without taking a breath, spins the eggs with his fork. Bits are projected onto the floor, onto his school uniform. Maggie frowns, switches off the radio. She hands her son a fiver, musses his hair, kisses his forehead. She leaves out the back door, her blue work bag under her arm.

Josh switches the radio back on. “That’s how the President and I communicate. A lot of four letter words.” Josh turns the radio off. He notices his mother’s Bible on the table. He’s just bored enough this morning to open it. He finds the first dog-eared page. A square of orange highlighter surrounds Psalm 46.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

I wonder if Mom’s OK, he thinks—she seems fine. The thought that his mother is not fine seems an impossibility. Josh closes the book, pours himself another glass of juice, stuffs the money in his pocket and leaves out the back door. He leaps down the stairs, his palms skimming the railing. He walks down the gravel alley, kicking the larger loose stones when he sees them. He does this over and over again until one stone hits a car, sets off an alarm. Josh walks faster. He gets to the end of the alley and is surprised to see his mother in the distance, waiting—she must have missed the earlier bus. He’s never seen her on his way to school before. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the idea of her there alone.

He watches his mother move her hair away from her face, light a cigarette. He sees her lift her eyes from the page in front of her (She remembers the date: the first of the month). He can’t hear her, but he knows she’s cursing; she’s missed rent. Her mouth goes on to form ’A lot of four letter words’. She shakes her head, stamps the sidewalk, goes back to her book of crosswords.

They wait. Josh loses track of time, his mother, engrossed, doesn’t notice him in the distance. He sees the bus stop, those waiting file onto it. He doesn’t like the idea of his mother as susceptible to pain, in need of God’s help. He chews the cud of his lower lip, turns, walks away.