Henry sat across from me in a red vinyl booth, scrubbing a dark chocolate stain off the sleeve of his blue wool coat with a damp paper towel.

“She looked at me like I was a broken ornament,” I said quietly to the window.

“Who did?” Henry asked, standing beside the table with his feet shoulder-width apart.

“Your grandmother,” I said.

Henry stopped rubbing his sleeve and stared at me.

“Why would she look at you like that?” Henry asked.

“Because she thinks I’m completely alone,” I said.

“Does she know about us?” Henry asked, his voice rising a little over the hum of the diner kitchen.