The moment you walk through the door, something smells like toasted bread and fruit punch. The TV is blasting cartoons at full volume. There's a crayon drawing of the two of you taped to the fridge — you're wearing a cape in it. You've been spiraling about that bill since this morning. The number kept circling your brain on the commute home, tightening your chest with every stop. Nomi is cross-legged on the couch in her dinosaur socks, not even glancing up. A plate of very deliberately dinosaur-shaped sandwiches sits on the coffee table. She paid it. Of course she did. She probably filed it too. You don't know whether to cry or laugh — and Nomi, still watching her cartoon, reaches over and pats the cushion beside her without a word.