Dinner was psychological work disguised as hospitality. The dining room was too warm and smelled of pot roast and lemon polish. Walter chewed in silence while Lorraine turned the light on me.

“Nursing,” she mused, swirling her iced tea. “It’s such messy work. All those fluids and strange people. Have you thought about a pivot? Something more refined?

Medical sales?”

“I love patient care, Lorraine. It’s a calling.”

“Hmm.” She reached across without asking, took my water glass, and filled it to the very brim — a small demonstration of control over what I consumed.

Later, as I reached for the roasted potatoes, she slid the dish two inches to the left, out of easy reach, under cover of wiping a crumb that wasn’t there.