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“Hostile household.”

“You know where the eggs are,” Tova says. “You moved them to make room for mustard.”

“I had reasons.”

“You had three mustards.”

“They’re different.”

Tova and I answer together. “They are all yellow.”

Colt tries very hard to look offended. He does not make it.

Tova’s bedroom door is closed and the dishwasher is running. Her schoolbag rests against the entry table, one of Colt’s socks is beneath the coffee table, and the hoodie is still draped over the dining chair because neither of them appears willing to move it now.

I wipe the island while Colt finishes the last two plates at the sink.

“You missed one.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Where?”

I point to the plate beside the stove.

“That wasn’t there.”

“It has been there since dinner. You put tortillas on it.”

“I remember no such event.”

“You are losing time.”

“Concerning at my age.”

I rinse the cloth and wring it out while he turns back to the sink. The dishwasher hums under the counter. The light above the stove leaves the rest of the kitchen dim, and Colt starts humming something badly enough that I cannot identify it.

He sets the plate in the rack, turns, and catches me watching him.

“You’re staring.”

“I am allowed private thoughts.”

“Not when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He dries his hands on the towel. “Like the dishes just got interesting.”

“They have not.”

“Good. I was worried about you.”

He hangs the towel over his shoulder, leans back against the sink, and takes his time looking at me.

“You want to know what I was thinking about?”

“No.”

“How quiet you’re going to have to be.”