“Eat.

This is a two-fork conversation.”

She wrote the branch number on a napkin in small, square figures.

“I’ll call and ask them what branch they are.

Nobody has ever refused to tell me that.”

Martha had a tin of buttons out on the coffee table when we got there, sorting blues into a saucer and whites into the lid.

David sat on the arm of the sofa.

“Tell me again what the notice said.”