The Ledger Burns

Kamala keeps the blade at Abdul's throat, her eyes on me, and I lift the ledger from the table, the cracked spine warm in my hand. I cross to the stove, strike a match, and touch it to the page—the dark cloth catches, the numbers curling into smoke as Abdul's hand tightens on her wrist. She does not flinch, and when the ledger is ash, she lowers the knife, and Abdul's eyes move from the fire to her face, the debt gone but something else now owed between them.