The silence stretched too long.
Elliot stood just inside the doorway, his jacket still on, the smell of cold air clinging to him. His father's eyes bore into him, sharp and searching. His mother hovered behind, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white. His aunt sat on the edge of the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the heat being on, her face drawn and grey.
"I asked you something," his father said again, slower this time. "Where were you?"
Elliot swallowed.
"Out," he said. His voice sounded wrong to his own ears—too flat, too careful.
His father scoffed. "Out where?"
"Looking for work."
His aunt coughed, a short, broken sound that ended in a wheeze. She pressed a tissue to her mouth. When she lowered it, there was a faint red smear.
Elliot's stomach twisted.
"That money," she said quietly. "It was for my treatment."
The words weren't angry. That was worse.
Elliot felt something inside him recoil, like an animal pressed into a corner. His eyes flicked to the floor.
"I didn't—" He stopped himself. Restarted. "I was going to put it back."
"When?" his mother asked. Her voice shook. "When, Elliot?"
He didn't answer.
His father stepped closer.
"Did you take it?" he asked.
Elliot could hear his own heartbeat. Loud. Too loud. He thought of a dozen responses—deflections, half-truths, excuses that had worked before.
But something about the way his aunt looked at him—tired, not surprised—made his throat close.
"Yes," he said.
The word landed like a dropped plate.
His mother gasped softly and covered her mouth. His father's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
"You stole from a dying woman," his father said.
Elliot flinched. "She's not—"
"Don't," his father snapped. "Don't you dare soften it."
"I needed it," Elliot said, desperation creeping into his voice. "I needed to get back on my feet. I was going to fix things."
His aunt laughed.
It was a weak, broken sound, but it cut through him all the same.
"You've been saying that for twenty years," she said.
The room felt smaller.
His mother stepped forward. "Elliot, we gave you a place to stay. We defended you. We told people you were trying." Her voice cracked. "Why wasn't that enough?"
He didn't know how to answer that.
His father stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head.
"Get your things."
Elliot looked up. "What?"
"You heard me," his father said. "You're done here."
His mother turned sharply. "Michael—"
"No," he said, cutting her off. "I won't have him in this house anymore."
Elliot's chest tightened. "Dad, come on—"
"You crossed a line," his father said. "One you don't come back from."
His aunt closed her eyes.
"I don't want him here," she said softly.
The words were calm. Final.
Elliot felt something give way inside him.
He went to his room in a daze. Stuffed clothes into a backpack. Left most of his things behind—books he'd never finished, tools he'd meant to sell, photos he couldn't bring himself to look at.
When he came back into the hallway, his father was waiting.
"Give it back," he said.
Elliot hesitated. Then slowly reached into his sock and pulled out the folded bills. He placed them in his father's hand.
His father didn't count them.
He opened the front door.
Outside, the sky was turning orange, the sun sinking low. Dusk. The time when the world couldn't decide what it wanted to be yet.
Elliot stepped onto the porch.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The sound echoed down the street.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain of the door he'd grown up behind. Then he turned and walked.
He didn't look back.
End of Chapter 3