“Your ring’s backwards,” I said.

He glanced down at his hand and said nothing.

I walked past him.

He said my name once, from behind me, in the voice he used on the phone with slow-paying accounts.

I kept walking.

The kitchen door swung every few seconds by table twenty-two, letting out warm air, the smell of dishwater, and a clatter of stacked china.

Margaret reached the table first.

She touched her double strand of pearls at her throat, then rested one hand on the back of the empty chair.