The silence in the kitchen grew heavier, punctuated only by the hum of the refrigerator.

Outside, the cicadas buzzed in the oak trees, a constant, dry drone.

“I brought you some tap water,” I said, pushing a glass toward Juliette. “And these saltines are fresh.”

Juliette did not touch the glass.

She looked at the empty stove, then at the empty sink.

“Where is Dan?” she demanded.

“He’s out back, checking the pool filter,” I said.

Sarah finally spoke up, her voice trembling. “Annie, does Dan know about the account?”

“Dan knows we are tightening our belts,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly even.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Sarah said, stepping closer to her mother.

“It’s the only answer I have right now,” I said.

Juliette let out a loud, dramatic sigh and pulled at her damp collar again.

“I am not spending my holiday eating dry crackers in a hot house,” Juliette said.

She reached into her designer purse and pulled out a pair of sunglasses.

“If you won’t provide a proper meal, we will just have to buy one,” she said.