Page 18 of Let Me In

The door to the house creaks as I step inside.

He’s waiting.

Dad steps into the doorway of the garage, rag in one hand, eyes already hard.

“So?”

I don’t answer right away. Just pull the folded bills from my other pocket. I count them quietly. Neatly.

“Two thousand.”

He scoffs. “More than it was worth.”

I don’t say anything.

He does.

“You owe me four hundred.”

Of course. He waited until I had something to take.

“For what?”

His eyes narrow. “For letting you live here. For putting up with you. You think all this is free?”

It’s not a question.

I don’t argue. I don’t ask why now. I don’t say that the sale was mine. That the bike wasmine. That the burn was mine, too.

I just pull the bills and count out four hundred. It’s mechanical, practiced, like flipping a switch I wish I didn’t know existed. The one that keeps everything quiet when it shouldn’t be. Each bill feels heavier than it should, like it’s pulling pieces of me loose. But I don’t stop, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, and defiance doesn’t earn you mercy here. Only more cruel words.

I place them on the table between us.

He doesn’t say thank you.

Just walks away.

I stand there for a second longer. Then I go to my room.

The door closes behind me. I lock it.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and only then do I reach into my jacket and pull the scrap of paper free.

I smooth it out. Thumb over the number. Read it once. Twice.

I think about what it meant. What it could mean.

How his fingers brushed mine when he handed it over. The way they had, too, when I gave back the mug. Not deliberate. Not pointed. But I felt it.

Warm. Certain. The kind of touch that stays longer than expected—because it felt safe. Because it didn’t ask anything from me, but it stayed anyway.

I don’t let myself dwell on it, not too much.

So I don’t call.

But I don’t throw it away. Don’t even consider it.

I slip it into the notebook beside my bed.

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