We settled at the table and compared ordinary habits.

We both hated the sound of styrofoam.

We both preferred the crust of bread.

We both read the last page of a mystery novel before deciding whether to begin it, a habit Ruth considered unforgivable.

Then he asked about the photographs on the mantle.

There was one of my father at seventy, stiff in a dark suit, looking irritated even at his birthday party.

“That’s him?” Tobias asked.