“Pass your plates down.

Let’s eat while the food is warm.”

Kim lays her twenty-thousand-dollar check beside her water glass, but her eyes keep darting back to our paper bluebird card on Nate’s napkin.

“Are you guys sure you’re okay?” Kim asks, her breathless gratitude dropping into a hesitant, quiet question.

“We’re fine, Kim,” I say clearly, keeping my voice as even as an unpaid billing statement.

“Pass the dinner rolls down this way.”