Evan opened up a column he’d clipped from the local paper and laid his airline itinerary facedown next to the butter dish.

The paper slip showed a return flight to Chicago booked for November ninth instead of Sunday afternoon.

“You never told me your firm was letting you stay three weeks,” I said, setting a fresh foam cup of coffee on the tablecloth beside his plate.

“They’re not letting me stay, Mom,” Evan said.

“I’m deciding to stay.”

He flattened the edge of the newspaper clipping with his thumb.

It was a short piece from the business section about property valuations around town.

“You only packed one gray suit and two white shirts,” I said.

“I figured this was a weekend trip.”

“I can pick up another shirt downtown if I need it,” Evan said.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a little leather key case.

He slipped a small brass key off the inner ring and put it in the top drawer of the little oak desk in the corner of our kitchen.

“What’s that key for?” I asked.

“A filing drawer,” he said.

He pushed the desk drawer shut until the latch clicked sharply.

He turned the silver wristwatch on his wrist and rested his hand flat on the edge of the table.

“Is three weeks long enough for whatever work you’re doing here?” I asked.

“It’ll have to be,” Evan said.