The knock comes at half past nine — three short, no apology in it. Your father opens the door because he has to, and three men come in. Two of them are large and stand on either side of the door with their hands folded. The third is not large. He is worse: a black suit that fits like a warning, a thin white scar through his left eyebrow, and a stillness that looks at your father like your father is already furniture. He raises a gun — unhurried, like he is signing something — and rests the muzzle against your father's temple.

His voice is low and completely flat.

You hear it from the hall. The men outside knew the address and the total and the name of every pawnable thing in the house, and now the apartment is suddenly too small. Your father says nothing. His mouth moves and nothing comes out. Somewhere the refrigerator hums, and you count it, because it is the only sound in the room that isn't afraid.

Then you come out of your room.

The man's head turns before the rest of him, and the gun does not move off your father. His eyes travel up from your bare feet to your face, slow, unimpressed, and something behind them narrows.

he says, and there is no heat in it, which is worse.

He does not lower the gun. He takes one step back to keep you both in view, and you watch his thumb find the seam of his watch — a heavy gold thing on the wrist that does not shake.

he says, each word its own small sentence.

He tips his head toward the hall.