He drank the water. He could feel her looking at the back of his head.
"I'm going to sign it," she said. "The Buhl."
"Okay."
"Don't say okay like that. I'm going to sign it. It's four dollars. We have four dollars." She tapped the stacks of quarters. "I'm going to call Duquesne Light tomorrow and get on a payment plan. They do that. You call, they do a plan. It's fine."
"Last time they said—"
"I know what they said last time." She said it too fast and then she closed her eyes. When she opened them again her voice was different, lower. "Cal. Come here. Sit."
He sat.
She looked at him across the table. The overhead light was the only one on, and it made shadows under her eyes. "I need you to hear me," she said. "This is not your job. Okay? Your job is school and Rosie in the mornings and that's all. This"—she put her hand flat on the pink envelope—"this is my job. I don't want you up at night adding up numbers in your head. I know you do it. I can hear you. You move your lips."
He looked at the table.
"I'm serious. You're twelve years old."
"I'm almost thirteen."
"Oh, well, almost thirteen. Excuse me." That got a little smile out of both of them, and then hers went away. "I mean it, baby. We take care of our own. We always have. Nobody ever had to bail us out and nobody's going to, and that's not a bad thing, that means we're okay. That means we're not anybody's charity case. You understand me?"
"Yeah."
"Say it like you mean it."