“They gave me three napkins,” Brooklyn said, sliding onto the blue vinyl seat beside me.

“That’s just the right amount,” I said.

She carefully dipped a corner of her scrambled egg into the ketchup and brought it to her mouth without dropping a single crumb into her lap.

Kevin sat across from us, unwrapped his plastic fork, and reached across the narrow table to squeeze my knee once under the Formica edge.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, and for the first time since Friday afternoon, every word of it was true.