I turned it face down before Julian saw.

The message preview said: Springfield response arrived.

Nine thirty tomorrow.

Julian didn’t notice.

He was already talking about seating arrangements, about whether his father would sit next to my father without an argument.

He still believed my fog was postpartum fatigue, not a six-digit passcode copied onto the back of a grocery receipt.

“I have to stop by the bank tomorrow,” he said.

“Lake Street.