“Dinner soon, hon?”
“Ten minutes,” I said, still counting.
Sam didn’t pause at the door. She came straight through the kitchen with someone behind her — a girl about her age, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, wearing a hoodie that was too heavy for the weather with the sleeves pulled all the way down to cover her hands. She clutched the straps of a faded purple backpack like they were the only solid thing available.
“Mom, Lizie’s eating with us.”
She said it the way she said things she had already decided — not as a question, not as a request. As a fact she was informing me of.
I had a knife in my hand and dinner portioned for three.
The girl — Lizie — had not looked up. Her eyes stayed on the linoleum. Her sneakers were scuffed along the toes. And when she turned slightly, I could see the outline of her ribs through the thin fabric of her shirt beneath the open hoodie.
