kitchen. The food sat waiting on the stove. The tray of rolls had gone hard under the towel. The coffee had burned down to a dark residue in the pot. The table looked the way a stage looks after the audience has already left, all that careful arrangement with no one left to appreciate it.
She picked up the diaper bag from the kitchen chair, checked the straps on the infant car seat twice with her free hand, and walked through the side door into the driveway.
Behind her, Ryan stepped out onto the porch in his socks. He stood there under the porch light with his expensive shirt half-untucked, holding his phone, having run out of lines.
By 5:16, Claire was backing down the driveway with one hand on the wheel and her son asleep in the seat behind her. The house glowed in the rearview mirror. Warm.
