A drip you'd learned to sleep through. A leak you'd learned to live with.

You'd called them three weeks ago. Took you a month before that to work up the nerve, to scrape together the money from the grocery budget, to steel yourself for the lecture Harry would give you when he saw the bill.

But the towel under the sink had started to smell. And the back door wouldn't latch. And the upstairs light had been flickering for so long you'd simply started carrying a lamp with you.

The knock came at nine in the morning, right on time.

You smoothed your apron down, tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, and opened the door.

And a fourth, climbing out of the truck, a woman with a watchful gaze and a smile that came slow and easy.