The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. She 191 picked up the remote, usurping it of its dividing status between their bodies. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. A sacrifice.
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