“Ethan, I am parked at the end of your street.”

Ethan set his car keys on the granite counter beside the fruit bowl.

The metal ring clinked against the stone in the quiet house.

He wiped a smudge of flour off his thumb onto his apron and leaned over the stove.

“How did therapy go with Mom?” I asked.

“Dr.

Owens said her shoulder mobility is up fifteen percent,” Ethan said.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Martha’s physical therapy intake sheet.