It felt like I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, like I’d walked into a house that looked like mine, but belonged to someone else. She found me in the kitchen drinking a glass of water. Her eyes welled up and shone bright with what would soon form tears. I was in the right house, but at ten in the morning, I should’ve been somewhere else.


“Don’t cry,” I said.


“How much do we have?” She always cut to what mattered most, and in that minute, what mattered most was money. She didn’t care how I lost my job, she only cared that in that moment, I didn’t have one.


“We’ve got enough. Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” I didn’t know how long it would take and we both knew my words were empty, but I said them anyway.


“And then?” Her voice rose; she was angry, but not at me.


“And then I’ll find something,” I said, letting my tone match hers. “Where are the kids?”


She pointed toward the back yard.


I walked to the window, frosted with ice. Through a clear patch, I envied the innocence on the other side. “Where’s the camera?” I asked. “I want to save this.”


“We sold it. The last time.”


About a month later, I was working again and with my first check, I bought another camera. Nothing fancy, just something that  saved scenes worth saving because some things are more important to save than money.



by Foster Trecost


Foster Trecost is from New Orleans, but he lives in Germany. His stories have appeared in Elimae, Corium and Metazen, among other places.

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