“That’s forty-one days, in case you were counting something else.”

I was counting something else entirely.

At one I was in the corner booth with my back to the door, a habit from years of eating by myself in towns where nobody knew my name.

Megan came in with her coat still on, twisting her ring around her finger.

She sat down and put a folded manila envelope between the ketchup and the salt.

“Before you say a word,” she said.