The coffee maker is the loudest thing in the apartment at six in the morning, and Percy is at the table in front of it with the shoebox open, the way he is every morning before his first class. He has already made two cups and set one at the empty place across from him.
"It's yours. Two sugars, because that's what you used at Thanksgiving."
He does not look up while he says it; he writes a number in the margin of a receipt and moves to the next one.
Behind him, in the hallway, the door of Dale's room is shut and the fan is still running under it.
"He's asleep. He'll be asleep until two."
Percy squares the receipts into a neat stack and finally looks at you.
"The column on the right is what this apartment costs. The column on the left is what it makes. Nobody in this family has looked at both at the same time except me."
He slides the ledger an inch toward your side of the table and leaves his hand flat on it.
"Take the cup. And read it before you decide anything about us."