“On the kitchen speaker. It announces lunch even if your phone is dead.”
“I hate being managed by appliances.”
“You once programmed the coffee machine to insult me if I used it before five.”
His mouth twitched.
“What did it say?”
“Go back to bed, tyrant.”
“That’s good.”
“It stopped being funny the fifth morning.”
“No, it didn’t.”
He ate another bite.
I watched him as discreetly as I could.
He noticed anyway.
“You can go back to work.”
“I can stay.”
“You’re busy.”
“Not too busy.”
“That isn’t what your face says.”
I leaned back.
“What does my face say?”
“That something downstairs is on fire.”
“Nothing is literally on fire.”
“Comforting.”
I considered how much to tell him.
Dr. Whitcomb had said manageable truth. Not concealment. Not a flood.
“We accepted a large ferry maintenance contract.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
“Why don’t you look happy?”
