He washed the brush in the sink. Yellow water swirled away. "I applied to four jobs this morning. Two I would have been embarrassed to tell you about before. Admin-heavy. Lower title. I put them on the spreadsheet."
Nia dried her hands and took his. His palm was paint-rough. "Show me after she wakes up from the transfer to bed. No—show me now, while the courage is still wet."
They sat on the floor again—their new tradition, born of insufficient furniture—and Marcus opened the laptop. The spreadsheet was color-coded. Applications. Follow-ups. Unemployment balance. Projected director salary net. Projected rent-equivalent mortgage. A line for therapy co-pays. A line for Amara's birthday, three months out, with a small number beside it that meant party without spectacle. Nia added a column labeled QUESTIONS FOR US and wrote in the first cell: What do we tell Amara when she's old enough to ask why we moved?
Marcus typed beneath her sentence: The truth, edited for her age, never edited for our comfort.
Nia looked at him. "You're learning."
"I'm trying home," he said, echoing their daughter, and Nia leaned over and kissed him—brief, real, unfinished. A kiss that promised nothing but continued presence.