She had already pushed my wooden salt shaker over to the far edge by the wall.

“Mark, get your sister another napkin,” Vanessa said, flicking two fingers toward the kitchen counter.

“And not those cheap paper ones, go get a real cloth one out of the hall closet.”

Mark stood by the doorway with both hands jammed deep in his back pockets, his jaw clenched so hard the little muscle under his ear jumped with every breath.

“We don’t keep cloth napkins in the hall, Vanessa,” Sarah said, setting a heavy glass bowl of mashed potatoes on the hot pad.