“That would be fine,” I said.

Mark opened the refrigerator and leaned inside to find the pitcher.

His back was turned completely to the kitchen table.

Emma got up from her wooden chair and walked quietly over to the kitchen island.

She reached into the small pocket of her jeans and pulled out a tightly folded square of lined notebook paper.

She kept her eyes fixed on her father’s back.

Her small shoulders stayed perfectly stiff.