We bought three paper plates of scrambled eggs and a small carton of milk for Brooklyn.

“Can I have ketchup on mine?” Brooklyn asked, pointing her plastic fork toward the counter near the tray return.

Kevin took her hand and walked her over to the red pump dispenser, leaving me alone at a four-person table in the middle of the room.

The cafeteria hummed warmly around us with the ordinary noise of plastic trays, shifting chairs, and kitchen work in the distance.

My cell phone sat next to my tray, face down on the bright yellow tabletop.