The Price of Salvation
The office smelled of dust and old paper, a mustiness that clung to the back of Clara's throat like an accusation. Rain streaked the single window behind Mr. Pemberton's desk, blurring the gray outline of Market Street beyond it, and somewhere a radiator ticked and groaned as though the building itself resented the cold.
Her father sat beside her, his hands folded in his lap, though they would not stay still. She watched his fingers tremble against the worn fabric of his trousers, watched him press them flat and fail, again and again, to make them obey. Three months ago those hands had been steady enough to guide a boat through the shoals off Hartwell Point. Now they shook simply holding a pen.
"I've gone through the figures twice more since Tuesday," Mr. Pemberton said, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. He was a small, apologetic man who seemed to have shrunk inside his own suit. "I'm afraid there's no path I can find that doesn't end in foreclosure. The medical liens alone—" He stopped, cleared his throat, started again. "The medical liens alone exceed the value of the house, Mr. Mitchell. I'm very sorry."
Clara's mother made a small sound beside her, not quite a sob, and…
