She didn’t lift her head from the middle shelf, where three bottles of chardonnay sat in a wire rack.

“The air purification system in this house runs constantly, Loretta,” she said, without turning around.

She took another long draw, tilting her chin up toward the ceiling vents as the ash glowed orange.

“My lungs were damaged by thirty years on the factory floor in Lancaster,” I said, taking two steps closer to the quartz counter.

“The inhaler I had to pick up yesterday cost forty-two dollars out of pocket because the insurance payment failed, and cigarette smoke brings on a chest spasm in less than five minutes.”

Sloan let out a short, dry laugh that barely lifted her shoulders, then reached into the refrigerator for a jar of capers.