I turned toward the kitchen counter out of habit, even though I already knew what I would find. The cabinets were nearly empty. A half torn box of pasta sat on the shelf like a cruel joke. On the counter was the last can of powdered milk, open and empty, its inside coated with a thin layer of dust. I picked it up anyway, shook it once, then set it down carefully as if being gentle might make something appear inside.
My mother worked overnight cleaning offices in the downtown business district of our Midwestern city, a place full of tall buildings that looked important from the outside and empty once everyone went home. Her paycheck came on the fifth of every month. Tonight, it was still days away.
Five days sounded manageable when adults said it out loud. Five days felt endless when a baby cried in your arms and there was nothing left to feed him.
I picked up the phone again, my hands trembling, and finally looked at the name at the top of the screen.
It was wrong.