The tape on my neck was itching again. It was that specific, sticky kind of pull that happens when you’ve been lying in a hospital bed for two days straight. I reached up, felt the plastic drain tube tucked under my hospital gown, and decided I didn’t care if I pulled a stitch. I just wanted to see the screen one more time.

My bank app was open. The balance was $19.08.

An hour ago, it had been $52,913.44. That money was supposed to be for my recovery bills and the property taxes. Now, it was funding a tropical getaway for Trent and Nina from payroll. I sat there in the dim light of Mercy Regional, listening to the hum of the air conditioner.

I didn’t feel like I was going to pass out. I didn’t feel like my heart was breaking. I just felt like a switch had been flipped.

I looked at the transaction log. It was a mess of wire transfers and debit swipes. The most recent one was a $3,981 charge at the Blue Reef Resort. I looked at the memo line. Business reimbursement.

Trent hadn’t owned a business since the lawn equipment disaster of 2016. I remember how he used to wear those polo shirts with the company logo he printed at home. It seemed so small now. It seemed pathetic.

I picked up my phone and dialed his number.

He didn’t answer.

I dialed again. I knew he was at the gate. I knew he was probably holding a boarding pass in one hand and a cheap beer in the other. This time, a woman answered.

“Hello?”

It was Nina. I knew her voice. She had been at our Fourth of July barbecue last year, eating the deviled eggs I’d spent two hours peeling. She sounded nervous, like she was holding the phone away from her ear.

“Put him on,” I said.

My voice sounded steady. It surprised me.

Trent came on the line a second later. He was chewing something. “Look, I’m exhausted. I’m not doing this right now.”

“Where is the money, Trent?”

“I need space, Melissa. You make everything feel like a bill. You make everything feel like work. Nina understands pressure. She doesn’t keep a ledger of my failures.”

He sounded so smug. He sounded like a man who thought he had finally escaped the chores of real life.

“Rest is cheaper without me there,” he said.

Then he hung up.

I stared at the phone. The room was quiet. I thought about the casserole my sister Linda had left in my freezer. I thought about the electric bill that was due on Tuesday. I thought about how for twenty-two years, I had worked in loss prevention at River Counties Credit Union.