“You have a folder you printed this morning.”

He looked at me then the way he used to look at Lucas across the dinner table, as if he were adding up a column and finding it short.

“You always make this harder than it needs to be,” he said.

He came around the table and took hold of my wrist.

His fingers were cold from outside.

I pulled my arm back.

The folder slid off the table and fanned open on the floor.