He heard voices from the vents. Warm air mixed with people talking, sometimes yelling at each other about stupid things, petty things. Accusations of cheating, lying, talk of leaving. The old man cracked open a beer and listened, sitting on a chair in the kitchen, waiting for the final blow.

You son of a bitch, she said. Always high. Can’t do anything unless you’re stoned. All our money goes towards weed and cigarettes, she opened the refrigerator door. Look. Nothing inside, she yelled. Your son hasn’t had a decent meal in a week. Proud of yourself? she asked. Huh? the old man snickered a bit, took another drink from his cold can.

Are you done? he asked. Are you through? Now the baby was crying. The child’s screams came up with the heated air. Look at you, he said. You do nothing. I bring home the paycheck, I work, and if I want to smoke a little dope, so be it, he told her. A dish was thrown across the room. Now clean that up, he yelled at her, the baby crying harder. You’re making a mess.

Go to hell, she said. Just go to hell, she began to sob. The old man stood over the vent. Had trouble making out the words.

Hey baby. Come on now, the voice said. We can work this out. Shhhhh. Come on now. You know I love you, he said. I’ll lay off the dope.

Till next time, she said. Then we’ll just fight again, the old man heard movement. I’m going to bed. Gotta boy, I have to take care of.

And then there was silence. The old man shook his head. He knew they’d be back at it tomorrow.