I opened a curtain, then closed it when the reflection showed me alone beside three bags.

There was food in the refrigerator that belonged to the days before Portugal.

I shut the door without taking any out.

Mom’s dinner would have been familiar: plates close together, Troy telling one of the children to sit down, Dad saying he was not hungry and accepting a second helping anyway.

I could have asked Hassan to take me there.

The thought arrived late, after he had gone.