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“Ivy… can I come over? Please.”
Twenty minutes later, she was standing in my kitchen, gripping a mug she never drank from. Her hair was unwashed, her nails chewed down, her knee bouncing nonstop. There was no warm-up, no small talk.
She spilled everything in short, shaky sentences. Rick’s construction business was falling apart. Debts piling up. The mortgage company closing in. They’d already tried his parents — still not enough. They were out of options.
“How much?” I asked. That had always been my role in the family — the one who fixed things.
She whispered it like admitting a sin. “Twenty-five thousand.”
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