scramble outside, blindly waving her off, but she’d chase him, recounting the story until something — perhaps the scar on her stomach — proved she was serious. Greg would take off his glasses and stare, tenderly, at Julie, before muttering “Fuck-Mother-Fuck-Fuckety-Fuck.” At a café two blocks from the first they’d drink espresso and work out a plan. Greg’s wealth would dissolve bureaucratic resistance. Theo’s adopted parents would say, He never felt right in our arms, as they returned the child to Julie.

At work she further fleshed out the details. Greg would be wearing a red-and-white flannel. His hair would be long, styled with gel. The second café would smell like burnt muffins. Theo’s adopted parents, she decided, were florists. They excelled at making funeral wreaths.

This future, imagined, promised Theo’s return. And his return would swell her with joy. But leaving the coast threatened that future. What if the second café smelled like chai, or incense, instead of burnt muffins? What if Greg wore contacts? His hair shaved to the scalp? If the adopted parents were bankers, instead of florists, would they then refuse to give Julie her son? Until she could guarantee that what she’d imagined was accurate, she would have to stay on the coast.

She explained this to Jean one evening, in late September, as they sat on the couch eating dinner. Jean shut off the TV.

“You need to leave,” she said.

“Upstairs?” Julie asked, knowing that’s not what she meant.

“It’s been three months.”

“I could pay rent?” Julie said.

“You pay rent you’ll never save up to leave.”

She had a little more than eight hundred dollars. Plus twenty from Kyle.

“A month,” Jean said. “A month is plenty of time.” “Why don’t you like me?”

“Who said I didn’t?” “You’re kicking me out.”

“How’s this? You sacrificed something most people don’t get, money for college, to make whoopie with strangers. You give up your kid. Don’t want to know where it goes. Then abandon your family who's tktktkt