I look down at the spot beside the gravy boat, where there are no envelopes left.

“Now then,” Ron says, reaching into the pocket of his brown suit jacket and pulling out a small, thin envelope.

“This last one is for Nate and Emily.”

He reaches across the dishes and hands the thin paper rectangle to Nate.

Nate hesitates for two full seconds before stretching his arm over the bowl of scalloped potatoes to take it.

I take the envelope from Nate’s work-roughened palm and lay it flat on my cloth napkin under the edge of the tablecloth.