She kept the neighborhood’s secrets in a curtain hem. Now the fog is coming for hers.

South Philadelphia, 1948. Nine-year-old Netta Marino arrives on Oakford Street, a block of scrubbed marble steps where the barber next door sings Puccini through her bedroom wall and everyone’s small hopeful money rides three digits at a time, folded into the corner of a grocery order. Upstairs live her aunts: two courteous women in black who run the block’s numbers bank with banker’s hours and perfect manners. Netta, the grocery girl whose pages are never wrong, becomes their runner, then their apprentice, and learns the street’s first commandment: the best work is the work no one can find.

Then one April afternoon a police wagon turns the corner, and her mother answers the door with a dust rag in her hand.

Twenty-five years later, New Jersey legalizes the family trade and dresses it in chandeliers. Netta walks into an Atlantic City count room and spends twenty-three years weighing the pennies of her whole people, rising from the hard count to the credit desk — the one woman in the building who has seen the entire industry before, run smaller and kinder, out of a front room by two old women in black.

Now she is eighty-five. The doctors have their words for what is coming; she has hers. Before the fog takes the near streets, she is writing the whole ledger down, one Tuesday envelope at a time — the raid, the silences, the honest weight of it all — and sewing everything she loves where no confiscation reaches.

A debut novel about memory as duty, the hidden economies of women, and a block that kept its people. For readers of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, The Boston Girl, and My Brilliant Friend.