Shelter by Jung Yun

she’s heard it all before. Kyung hands her a card from the bottom of his stack, hopeful that it’s on the bottom because he hasn’t used it recently. Then he watches her scan the items, counting the number of beeps as he waits for the total.
    â€œWhat’s that thing?” he asks, pointing at the last item in the basket, a toy caterpillar with body parts that fit together like blocks.
    â€œIt’s for the boy,” Jin says. “For helping me.”
    Ethan doesn’t need another toy. He doesn’t even like blocks. Kyung wonders if he asked for it, although it hardly matters how the thing ended up in the basket. He can’t refuse now. He nods and the cashier scans the caterpillar and swipes his card through the machine. His chest tightens at the thought of being declined while his father looks on—he’ll never recover from the shame. He keeps his eyes glued to the box, the little white one next to the register that reads PROCESSING in red letters. Processing, processing, processing. It’s taking longer than usual, which means something bad is about to happen. Kyung fans through his cards again, not certain which one to use when the first is declined. He doesn’t think he has room left on any of them.
    â€œSign here,” she says, tearing off the receipt and putting a copy in front of him.
    Kyung stares at the slip of paper as if he doesn’t believe her. Then he scribbles his name so no one will notice how badly his hand is shaking. His signature—a zigzagged line that looks like he was testing the pen for ink—doesn’t even resemble the one on the back of his card.
    â€œThank you,” he says. He knows the cashier had nothing to do with the purchase getting approved, but he thanks her as if she did.
    As they walk back to the car, he and Gillian exchange a look, one that’s becoming all too familiar lately. A ninety-dollar purchase at Walmart shouldn’t terrorize them like this. Kyung makes a decent salary at the university. He has a goddamn Ph.D. But their mistakes are finally catching up with them. Their house payment is a nightmare. His student loans too. They’ve refinanced their mortgage, borrowed from their credit cards, and transferred their balances over and over again—all in the name of staying current on their bills, but they can’t keep up with this shell game much longer.
    â€œCan I have my bug now, please?” Ethan asks.
    Kyung digs into one of the plastic bags and hands it to him.
    â€œThank you.”
    Gillian smiles as she watches Ethan examine his new toy, confirming what he’s always known about her. She’s quicker to recover than he is; she’s always been the more resilient of the two. Kyung’s moist hand is still wrapped around his wallet like it’s a brick he’s about to throw. In a few years’ time, Ethan will be old enough to understand their situation, to feel the same shame and worry and weight that he does. Kyung stops short in the middle of the parking lot and swoops the boy up in his arms, hugging him much harder than he should.
    â€œDaaaaaaaad,” Ethan protests.
    Four is a kind age, he thinks. Four is wonderful and clueless.
    When they return home, Kyung leads his father upstairs to the guest room. The back of the house is in the shade now, and the space almost seems barren in the dim light. He’s embarrassed by the stained blue carpet, the absence of anything resembling comfort or style. The only personal items on display are the alarm clock and two remote controls on the end table. It’s a far cry from the antique-filled rooms in his parents’ house, but it’s clean. At the very least, it looks like they made an effort to receive him.
    â€œWill you be comfortable here?”
    Jin sits down on the edge of the bed, testing the springs. “I’d like to lie down now,” he says, not answering the question.
    â€œSo do you want—do you