“You missed the dog-eared corner on the Elm Street bid,” Frank said quietly, his voice low and gravelly.

“That isn’t like you.”

A waitress stopped at the edge of our table with a heavy glass water pitcher.

She had on black work shoes with worn rubber soles and a faded linen apron tied high over her stomach.

She was gripping the pitcher handle so hard her knuckles showed pale.

“Anyone at the table need a refill?” she asked.

I looked up to tell her we were fine, but the words stuck in my throat.