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The rain was a mean, slanting thing, the kind that bypassed umbrellas and went straight for the soul. Leo, a sous-chef at a trendy but floundering bistro, stood at the bus stop, trying to calculate the impossible math of the month.

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He drove to the pharmacy, picked up Mia’s antibiotics. Tap. Green. edenred plus

That night, he sat with Mia on the couch. She was bundled in a blanket, sipping juice, the cookies crumbled on a plate. The stew bubbled on the stove. The lights didn’t flicker when he turned on the oven to bake bread. The rain was a mean, slanting thing, the