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I don’t move.

No.

My brain refuses to understand what my eyes are showing it.

Shoebox.

Bed.

Empty.

No.

I walk toward it slowly.

Maybe I moved the money, and—and forgot—

No. I didn’t. I know I didn’t.

Maybe—

No.

My knees hit the mattress. I grab the box and flip it over.

Nothing falls out.

I shove my hand inside anyway, fingers sweeping desperately along cardboard corners.

Empty.

It’s empty, empty, empty, empty—

“No,” I mouth, tossing it aside and dropping to the floor. When I look beneath my bed, I see the loose board askew.

I rip it upward.

Nothing.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

I reach into the opening, frantically searching, but all my fingers touch is wood and dust. There’s nothing else.

The money is gone.

All of it.

Four thousand, seven hundred, and two dollars.

Gone.

My lungs stop working.

I can’t get air in. I open my mouth, but nothing comes.

“No.” It comes out as a whisper, and I say it again, louder, as if volume will fix it. “No.”

I crawl halfway under the bed, because maybe she dropped some.