Logan got home at 6:40 that evening.

I was standing in the hallway when he came in.

I had been standing there for about eleven minutes, which is not a thing I have ever done before or since.

He saw my face and put his bag down on the floor rather than on the bench.

“Paige called you.”

Not what’s wrong. Not are you all right.

“Paige called me.”

He went past me into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, and stood there looking into it, which is what my husband did for thirteen years whenever he did not want to have his face available.