Ethan walked into the kitchen carrying a brown paper grocery bag from the market near the therapy clinic.

He set the bag on the counter, unbuttoned his coat, and hung it over the back of a dining chair.

“Martha made it through forty-five minutes on the parallel bars,” Ethan said, going to the sink to wash his hands with soap and hot water.

“Her therapist said her balance score is four points higher than last month.”

“Did she drink her afternoon water before the session?” I asked from the doorway, still holding June.

“Half a bottle at two fifteen,” Ethan said, drying his hands on a clean dish towel.