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Jamie’s fingers pause above the cookie plate. He looks at Oliver. Then he picks up the little pitcher and passes it across the table.

“Thank you,” Oliver says as he takes it. He adds a small amount to his tea and returns the pitcher without letting their fingers touch.

“You’re welcome,” Jamie says. The words arrive politely enough, although he chooses a cookie from the opposite side of the plate as soon as Oliver releases it.

I place one of Simon’s cakes on my saucer but eat another store-bought cookie first. Simon watches every bite, waiting for me to reach the thing he made. I finish the cookie slowly before cutting into his cake with the side of my fork.

The inside is soft and still warm. Lemon reaches me before the sugar does, followed by enough salt that the sweetness doesn’t become annoying.

Simon tries not to look interested. “Well?”

“It’s good.”

His shoulders loosen. He reaches for one of the cakes, but I move the plate beyond his hand.

“What do you need?” I ask.

Simon’s eyes narrow. Nineteen days ago, he would’ve taken the plate and made me punish him for it. Today, he looks at my face and adjusts before I have to correct him.

“May I have one of my cakes, please?”

I put the cake onto his saucer myself.

He looks at me, and his mouth almost curves before he catches it. He lowers his attention to the ridiculous cup in his hand instead.

I pour more tea for Simon and pass him the pot. “Jamie needs more.”

Simon looks across the table. Jamie lifts his tiny cup between two fingers and waits. Simon’s grip tightens around the handle.

“Ask him,” I tell Jamie.

Jamie smiles over the rim of his cup. “Will you pour me more tea, please, Simon?”

Simon moves the pot over Jamie’s cup. The handle looks made for a child in his enormous hand, and his little finger doesn’t fit anywhere useful. He pours without spilling, then sets the pot down carefully enough that the lid doesn’t rattle.

Jamie inspects the tea. “Thank you, Simon.”

“You’re welcome, Jamie,” Simon says.

I lean back against the beanbag and look at the table. Jamie eats the cookies I chose. Simon holds the tiny cup without breaking it. Oliver drinks his tea and watches the others instead of a door.

Beside us, their smaller selves sit around the miniature table beneath the dollhouse lights.

Three is best. I knew it. Knowing something and seeing it properly arranged are different pleasures.

They eat, drink and pass things when asked. Jamie’s knee rests close to mine. Simon’s sleeve stays folded where I put it, and Oliver’s open collar shows exactly as much silver as I intended.

This is what the other sets failed to become. They were too loud, too selfish, or too stupid to understand that being chosen required more than staying alive.

Oliver reaches for the cream without asking Jamie to pass it. Jamie catches the handle first and holds it in place.

“You’re supposed to ask,” Jamie says. His voice stays pleasant, but his fingers don’t move.

Oliver looks at his hand, then at Jamie. “Would you pass the cream, please?”

Jamie releases the pitcher only after Oliver finishes. “Of course.”

Oliver adds cream and passes the pitcher to Simon, who refuses it with a polite shake of his head instead of explaining everything wrong with putting dairy in tea.