“Is it dry enough to carry?” I asked, getting up from the bench.

“The corners are dry,” Toby said, holding the edges of the paper gently between his thumb and forefinger.

At half past six, our kitchen smelled of warm sourdough bread and roasted vegetables.

The clean oak dining table stood by the double window, catching the last orange glow of twilight.

I set two ceramic plates and two silver forks on the wooden placemats beside his paper.

The quiet in the room was warm and complete.