Money has never stretched far enough. Most weeks, it feels like a balancing act between overdue rent, half-empty cupboards, and prayers that the car will start.
Then came that Saturday — foggy, gray, and heavy with worry. Stan’s sneakers were too small, his toes pressing painfully against the fabric. I had five dollars to my name and a desperate hope that the local flea market might hold something we could afford.
A $5 Purchase — and a Hidden Sound
“How much?” I asked the vendor — an elderly woman with silver hair tucked beneath a faded scarf.
“Six dollars,” she replied.
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