“We still have enough in the account for the shore excursions, don’t we?” I asked, stepping over a pile of metal shavings.
“The cruise coordinator said those sell out early,” I added.
Vance shifted his weight, his loose change rattling louder in his pocket.
He looked down at the concrete floor, his mouth tightening into a thin line.
“We’re fine, Sandra,” Arthur said, his tone flat.
“I just want to make sure the budget is set,” I said.
Vance cleared his throat and looked at the wall of wrenches. “I should get back to the truck.”
By six in the evening, the kitchen had grown cold, and a gallon of milk sat on the counter, costing four dollars now and smelling slightly sour.
I spread the travel agency receipts across the table, adding the figures on a small notepad.
Forty-two hundred dollars.
It was the exact price of our cabin on Deck Seven, paid in full with no option for a refund.
