The red paper was glued right over the brass number on our door. It was the color of a wet brick, and the landlord had used three strips of heavy packing tape to make sure it stayed against the peeling paint.

Theo stood on the top step of the landing, his school backpack hanging from his right shoulder. He was seventeen, but in the dim, unshaded bulb of the third-floor hallway, his face looked thin and sharp, shadowed by the collar of his faded denim jacket. The draft from the stairwell smelled of wet wool and old soot, a cold draft that always found its way through the floorboards.

I reached out and peeled the tape back, trying to make the sound quiet so the family in 3B wouldn’t open their door to watch. The red paper tore down the middle, leaving a white scar of adhesive and gray paper fibers on the dark wood.

“Is that the final one?” Theo asked.

“Paper always tries to sound more important than it is,” I said, folding the red notice in half and tucking it into my coat pocket.

“The rent is nine hundred dollars, Maren,” he said, running both hands through his dark hair until it stood straight up. “We are two months behind, and the landlord’s note says we have exactly seven days before they call the sheriff. The lady downstairs in 2A said they are turning off the radiator in the hallway next week.”

“I have my shift at the grocery store tomorrow,” I said, twisting the plain silver ring on my right hand.

“It doesn’t pay enough for the milk,” he said. “A carton costs four dollars now, and that is just the store brand. Let me drop out of the afternoon classes.”

“You are staying in school,” I said. “Go inside and start your algebra. You need that secondhand calculator we bought at the Goodwill on the west side, the forty-dollar one, so make sure you use it.”

He didn’t move for three seconds, his eyes fixed on my coat pocket where the red paper was hidden. Then he reached past me, pushed the door open, and walked into the dark apartment without another word.