Dinner began with the scrape of forks and the kind of small talk that tries too hard.
Linda talked about the price of eggs.
Silas talked about neighbors parking too close to his curb.
He said “my curb” as if the asphalt had been issued to him with his badge.
I let him talk.
I had spent years learning that men who love control often reveal the map if you let them walk through it.
He looked me over three times before he said it.
“So what do they have you doing now?”
Linda answered before I could.
“Office work,” she said brightly. “Maya does paperwork for the military.”
Silas smiled.
There it was.
The old family arrangement.
Linda minimized.
Silas performed.
I absorbed.
Except I was not a girl at that table anymore.
“Some paperwork,” I said.
His fork paused.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means paperwork can move things.”
