Fifty cents each. Three a month at most, and even those had to be reported in advance.

Empty refills couldn't be thrown away. They had to be returned and logged.

If one went missing, next week's meal money got docked.

That was the truth behind my $5,000 a month.

While I sat there in a daze, four voice messages from my mother had already slammed in, one after another.

"I'm talking to you! Why aren't you answering, you money pit!"

The next second, the phone rang.

I took a deep breath and picked up.

"Queenie." Her voice was savage.

"Where's yesterday's pen refill?"

I froze. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me!" She let out a sharp laugh.

"I'm asking where you put the empty refill from the gel pen you used up yesterday. I went through your desk and couldn't find it. You filled seven pages of draft paper last night. There's no way you didn't go through a refill."

My throat went dry. "I was doing so many practice problems, I tossed it without thinking. I forgot."

"Tossed it?"

Her voice shot up a full octave.

"Tossed it? A fifty-cent refill, and you just toss it? Queenie, I swear, you're exactly like your deadbeat father. Wasteful down to the bone!"

I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles ached. The pressure in my chest kept building with nowhere to go.

"It's one pen refill, Mom. I really just forgot."

"Forgot!" Her voice climbed even higher, high enough that I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

"You can forget everything except how to spend my money! Do you have any idea how much you blow on pen refills alone in a month? How many times have I told you? Used refills get saved. They get logged. They get shown to me. Is your memory that bad, or are you doing this on purpose?"

"Fine. You want to throw things away? Then you can forget about dinner money next week. Consider it your reimbursement to me."

The line went dead. Nothing left but the flat, mechanical hum of the dial tone.

I sat there. Didn't move.

Outside, the dorm building lights were still on. The girl next door was laughing into her phone. Her voice drifted through the wall, faint but clear enough to make out.

Mom, stop worrying. I'm fine. Everything's great.

I looked down at the post Lily had just made on social media.

"I'd sell everything I own to give my kids the best."

Then I checked my balance. Sixteen dollars and thirty cents. Scraped together from recycling cans and bottles last week.