The Sunday Dinner had ended hours ago. The white tablecloth was stained with soy sauce and dumpling filling, the plates had been cleared, the wine glasses were empty, and Gerald the ficus had been returned to his windowsill with his paper judge's hat slightly more askew than usual. Eleanor had retired to the guest room after delivering a seventeen-minute toast that Kevin had documented as "the most emotionally significant toast since the Dumpling Summit, with decibel peaks exceeding eighty-two." Sophie and Kevin had gone home. Nathan had retreated to the second floor with his guitar.
And Martha Grey was still sitting at the dining table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago, her eyes distant in a way that suggested she was looking at something the rest of us couldn't see.
"He was seven years old when he made his first spreadsheet," she said quietly.
