ONE

The funeral is over and I am counting how many days until the debt collectors come.

Twelve people showed up. Thirteen if you count the priest, who did not know my father and kept calling him Martin instead of Michael. The casket was the cheapest option. Pine. No lining. The kind that makes you think about what happens underground.

I am standing by the grave after everyone else has left. The dirt is fresh. Someone will come tomorrow to put the grass back. Make it look like nothing happened here.

Ivy is waiting in the car. My sister is nineteen and she thinks grief looks like this: standing in silence, staring at a hole in the ground, waiting for meaning to arrive. I do not have the heart to tell her meaning is not coming. All that is coming is the bill.

My father's best friend—Dennis, sixty-something, retired plumber, decent man—walks over. He has been avoiding me all morning. Now he is here. Which means he has something to say that he does not want to say.

He stops next to me. Looks at the grave. Says,"Sloane. I need to tell you something."

I say,"How much?"

He blinks."What?"

"How much did he owe? That is what you came to tell me, right? That there is debt. That someone is going to come looking for it."

Dennis looks uncomfortable. Good. I am tired of people being comfortable around my father's messes. He says,"Eight hundred thousand."

The number lands. I do not move. Eight hundred thousand. My father worked as a line cook. Made thirty-two thousand a year on a good year. I have six thousand dollars in savings. Ivy has student loans.

I say,"To who?"

"The Salvatores."

Worse. So much worse. I know who the Salvatores are. Everyone in Brooklyn knows who the Salvatores are. You do not borrow from them unless you are desperate or stupid. My father was both.

Dennis says,"Michael borrowed to cover gambling debts. Then he borrowed more to cover the interest. Then he kept borrowing. Sloane, I tried to stop him. I tried to get him help. He would not listen."

"And now he is dead and I get the debt."

"That is how it works with them. Family debt does not die with the debtor."

I turn to look at him."Did you co-sign anything? Did anyone?"

"No. It is all on your father's name. But Sloane, they will come for you. Cristiano Salvatore. He is the one who collects. They call him the Devil. He does not forgive. He does not negotiate. You need to leave. Tonight. Take Ivy and go. Change your name. Disappear."

I say,"I have a job. Ivy has school. We have a life here."

"You had a life here. Now you have a debt. And Cristiano Salvatore does not care about your job or your sister's school. He cares about his money. And he will take everything you have to get it."

I look back at the grave. My father is down there. Six feet under. And somehow he is still ruining my life.

I say,"When will they come?"

"I do not know. Could be days. Could be weeks. But they will come."

I nod. Dennis puts his hand on my shoulder. Says,"I am sorry, kid."

He leaves. I stand there for another ten minutes. Doing math in my head. Math that does not work. Eight hundred thousand divided by six thousand equals nothing useful. Eight hundred thousand divided by my hourly wage at the bar equals the rest of my life.

I walk back to the car. Ivy is on her phone. She looks up when I get in. Says,"You okay?"

I say,"No."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

I drive us home. Ivy does not push. She learned a long time ago that I do not talk until I am ready. And I am not ready. I am doing math. Trying to figure out how to make six thousand dollars stretch far enough to cover eight hundred thousand. Trying to figure out how to explain to my nineteen-year-old sister that our father's death was not the end of the nightmare. It was just the beginning.

That night, I cannot sleep. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and count how many hours until someone knocks on my door. Except they do not knock on my door. They knock at two in the morning. Three times. Hard.