“You always come straight from work.” She said it the way she said most things to me, as though she were reading it off a label.

My father, Arthur, came in behind her holding her coat, and he didn’t sit until she pointed at a chair.

Fiona had a flimsy plastic tripod in her tote bag.

She set it up on the reception table, clipped her phone into it, and aimed the camera at the four of us.

“Recording in three,” she said.

She looked at the screen, then at me, then at the screen.

“Everybody look sad but solvent.”