He bought it at the register with the milk and the ibuprofen, five twenty-nine, the size of purchase that does not count as a purchase. He opened it in the car because the house had people in it. Commons, a common, a checklist, and then the gold-stamped one, sitting there under the parking-lot sodium light doing exactly what it was designed to do to him.

He photographed it against the steering wheel and sent it to the group chat, which returned three flame emojis inside a minute. There were sleeves in the glove box; there are always sleeves in the glove box. Driving home he worked out what it was worth, and then what he had spent since June, and arrived at both numbers without slowing down.