They had four dollars and thirteen cents.
Noah nodded, as if he had expected no other answer.
He was a narrow, sharp-boned boy with watchful gray eyes and hair that never stayed flat. At eleven, he had already learned the silence of people who notice too much. He never asked why their mother had gone back to Darren, never asked why Darren had vanished the night after their mother overdosed, never asked why the landlord changed the locks before the funeral flowers had wilted. He accepted disaster the way some kids accepted weather.
Ruby hated that about the world.
She hated it even more that it made Noah seem older than he was.
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