A drop of grease-stained water fell from the iron overpass, splattering directly across the side window of my SUV.
Lucy stood on the waterlogged gravel of the Chicago street, her face shadowed by the concrete deck above us. She did not look at me, but her fingers slowly adjusted the collar of her worn blue raincoat.
I rolled down the passenger window, the cold autumn air cutting through the warmth of the cabin.
“You should take this,” I said, my voice tight and formal.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill, and tossed it through the open window. It bounced off her wet sleeve and landed in a muddy puddle near her boot, the paper instantly absorbing the dark water.
“Keep it, Alexander, because you may need it more than I do,” Lucy said.
Her voice was quiet and deliberate, lacking the anger I had expected when the judge signed our divorce papers three weeks ago.
