Interest rates.
The arithmetic of survival.
I knew exactly how many extra shifts I needed to work to cover a month of Mark’s private rehabilitation sessions.
I knew which grocery store reduced meat on Tuesday evenings.
I knew how long I could delay replacing a pair of work shoes before the soles became genuinely unsafe.
I knew the balance on every credit card.
Or at least I thought I did.
« What rehabilitation money? » I asked.
Mark looked at the phone.
Then at the staircase.