By five thirty I was at the kitchen island in Daniel’s house, slicing zucchini and carrots for supper.

Renee came in through the garage door with her heavy black administrative portfolio and a tall glass of iced tea.

She dropped the portfolio flat on the granite counter with a dull, weighty thud that set the glass rattling.

Without a hello, she unzipped the side folder and drew out a freshly printed spreadsheet.

She pulled out a wooden stool, sat at the island, and tapped her manicured index fingernail against her glass of ice.

“The city water statement showed up in the online portal this afternoon, Margaret,” she said.