Leo sat in the vinyl chair next to my bed, staring at his phone.

His thumb hovered over his screen, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“What is it?” I asked, watching his face tighten.

“I’m just thinking about what she said,” Leo muttered. “About taking everything we have left.”

He unlocked his phone and tapped the icon for our local credit union.

“She doesn’t have access to our checking account, does she?” I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

Leo didn’t answer right away.

He stared at the screen, his eyes widening.

“Leo?” I called out.

“When I bought my first car ten years ago, my mom had to co-sign,” Leo said, his voice barely a whisper.

“That was a different account,” I said, trying to reassure myself.

“But when we bought the house, I transferred money through that old savings account,” Leo said, his fingers beginning to tremble.

He tapped the screen rapidly, trying to log into the banking portal.

A red error message popped up on his screen.

He tried again, his breathing growing shallow.