The blue canvas duffel bag landed next to Ethan’s chair at seven forty, set down the way Richard set down his briefcase.

I had one pancake left in the pan and the spatula still in my hand.

“Richard. What is that?” He poured his coffee first. He always poured his coffee first.

“Ethan’s things,” he said. “What he’ll need for a while.” The pan was smoking.

I slid it off the burner and turned the flame down, and my watch band slipped loose on my wrist, so I twisted it straight.

Ethan came in from the hallway in his socks, his hair still wet. He looked at the bag. He looked at his father.

Then he sat down and pulled his plate over.

“Pass the syrup,” he said.

“You’re not eating,” Richard said.

“You’re listening.”

Ethan poured the syrup anyway, slowly, in a circle, the way he had since he was six.