Keisha ran to the kitchen, grabbed the pan, burned her hand, cursed, dropped the pan in the sink, and stared at the charred remains of what was supposed to be Sunday dinner.
Man Man appeared, assessed the situation with his nine-year-old pragmatism, and said: "Pizza?"
"We had pizza Wednesday."
"Ramen?"
"We had ramen yesterday."
"Then what are we eating?"
Good question. The fridge held: expired milk, half a jar of peanut butter, three eggs, and something in the back that might have been leftovers or might have been a science experiment.
Payday was Friday. It was Sunday. The math didn't math, as Man Man would say.
Keisha's phone buzzed. Text from Big Zoe: On my way. Bringing food. Don't cook.