When the front door opened at half past five, the sound was deliberate and unhurried.

The brass key clicked inside the deadbolt, followed immediately by the quiet metallic snap of the key ring sliding onto the entryway wall hook.

Ethan walked into the kitchen, carrying a brown paper grocery bag from the market near the therapy clinic.

He set the bag on the counter, unbuttoned his coat, and hung it over the back of a dining chair.

“Martha made it through forty-five minutes on the parallel bars,” Ethan said, walking to the sink to wash his hands with soap and hot water.