“You’re home late, Naomi,” she said.

She was sixty-two, but her shoulders hunched forward as though she were hauling something heavy across the linoleum.

She picked up a clean yellow dish towel from the counter and started folding it into precise fourths.

“The flight out of Dallas sat on the tarmac for an hour,” I said.

“Is there another piece of meat in the fridge?”

Margaret shook the tea towel open, smoothed the cloth flat with her palm, and folded it in half again.

“Store-bought beef has gotten so expensive this month,” she said, her voice sinking into a soft murmur.