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ease.
    I don’t know where the anger comes from, but it slams into me like a hurricane. Great, heaping piles of anger so rich my mouth waters. “It’s kind of mine, isn’t it? And Mom’s? And Dani’s? And even Zara’s? It’s for all of us!”
    My voice rises, and I know it won’t be long before neighbors peek through their blinds for free early-morning entertainment.
    “This is for me to figure out, Astrid. Go inside. Your mom needs help with lunch.”
    I shove him. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish, but the mountain of a man hardly budges. “We’re going to be on the streets, and you weren’t even going to tell us. How much time do we have?”
    My dad shakes his head like I’m overreacting. “I’m doing everything I can here.”
    “No, you’re not,” I shout. “You’re looking for work, but what about us? We can help too. Mom could work. So could Dani and I.”
    “No,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “I can take care of my family.”
    I drop my head to one side, the fight leaving my body in a rush. “But you’re not, are you, Dad? If you were, you’d know we need you more than we need money. I forgive you for going to those races last summer. I just wish you could forgive me .”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.
    I start to answer, but now Zara is getting out of the car and Dad is yelling at her to stay put. I turn my back to him and march toward Candlewick Park, tears streaking down my face. I don’t want him to see me cry. But then again, I do.
    I want him to chase after me and hug me to his chest and say that everything will be all right. That even if we lose our home, we won’t lose each other. Not this time.
    But we’re already losing each other. We hardly speak anymore, and when we do, it’s with biting words and venom boiling in our blood.
    Our home is the only thing keeping us from shattering into five separate pieces.
    And it’s about to be gone.

I have my head in my hands, feeling nice and sorry for myself, when a voice interrupts my thoughts.
    “You following me, kid?”
    Glancing up from my picnic table, I see it’s Old Man. “Go away.”
    I put my head back down.
    The table rocks and I know he’s sat down. “Maybe you need some water. Dehydration is dangerous.”
    He’s teasing me, but it’s the last thing I need. Realizing I’m not playing along, the man sighs. “Look, I’m not good at this kind of thing. So, can you help me out?”
    I peek at him, thinking he must be joking. “What exactly do you need help with?”
    “I’m trying to make you feel better. You’re over here sulking, taking up my usual spot. Everyone knows that’s my spot.”
    “So you want me to help you help me feel better?”
    He grins ever so slightly. With the way his mouth turns down, even a smile looks more like he’s indifferent. “When you put it like that …”
    I stare down at my hands, my father’s secret burning in my mind. How long has he known we were facing foreclosure? Did the letter come yesterday? A week ago?
    “You know what I’ve found?” the man says.
    “No.”
    “I’ve found you should say the thing that’s bothering you outright.” He holds up a fist and shakes it like he’s strangling a large bird. “Takes away its power.”
    “My family is being kicked out of our house.” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because it doesn’t matter what this guy thinks. Or maybe I just want to sucker punch him for being nosy.
    “Is that it?” He leans back. “Hell, I’ve been evicted a half dozen times if I’ve been evicted once.”
    “My family will fall apart if we lose our home. They won’t make it.”
    “Yeah, they will. Now stop all this crying, kid. It shows weakness. You’re not weak, are you?”
    His words strike daggers through me. I’ve prided myself on having a stiff upper lip ever since we moved to Detroit, and this guy’s calling me a child. Well, he doesn’t know what I’ve been through. If he did, he’d feel bad about what