My mother offered to pay off my credit debt, when I confessed my dilemma to her after dinner one night.  I told her I would think about it.  The real issue, I explained, was the deeper and insoluble problem of my joblessness. She seemed heartened that we were talking about me, and I think the fact that I had addressed my worries and laid them out on the table for her was exciting for both of us.  She nodded while I rattled off the names of companies I'd applied to.  "Have you considered looking for internships?" she asked.  "We can support you, if you need to move out to a city to start your career."  She was challenging my argument that I couldn't just up and go live in New York City without first lining up a situation that paid. 
      "I can't afford to work for free," I said.  "Not now, while my finances are running on thin blood."
      "Dad and I could help you.  You would find a job eventually."
      "What if I didn't?  And the company didn't hire me after the internship?  I would be like the weakened chick that never got food getting thrown out of the nest to make space for the others."
       She gave me a look. 
       I lowered my head.  "I'm not sure I could live somewhere I didn't know anybody."
       She came over and rubbed my back.  Her touch was soft but sincere, and I felt my shoulders go flaccid like clothes on the line being released by an angry wind.  "Have you heard from Harvey?"
        I wished she didn't asked me things like that, because it always reminded me just how well she knew me.  I hated knowing that she could pick through my thoughts as if they were as tangible as my dresser drawers.  "I should write to him," I said.  "I keep meaning to."  Phrased this way, I hoped my comment made it seem like I was in command of the lack of communication between Harvey and me. 
       She nodded.  "I bet he would like that."