“I got it,” I said, keeping my tone level.

“And?”

“I don’t have that kind of money, Megan. Even if I sold the van, I wouldn’t have forty thousand.”

“Then get a loan,” she said. “Your credit is spotless. You’ve been bragging about your debt-to-income ratio for years.”

“That was for my mortgage,” I said. “Not to fund your apartment in Columbus.”

There was a short, sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“Who told you about Columbus?” she demanded.

“It doesn’t matter who told me,” I said. “I know you’re not sick.”

The silence on the line stretched for several seconds, heavy and cold.

When she spoke again, her voice had lost all pretense of sisterly affection.

“You think you’re so smart because you wear a tool belt and drive a rusty truck,” she spat. “You think you’re better than me because you work yourself to death.”

“I work to survive,” I said.

“Well, so do I,” she said. “And right now, my survival requires forty thousand dollars. If I don’t see a transfer confirmation by nine tomorrow morning, I’m calling the state board.”