been telling me about a professor who had changed the requirements for her final project. Her notebook lay open beside her plate, and she was explaining how she might have to redo an entire section of her research.
I was listening, nodding occasionally, and spreading raspberry jam across a piece of toast.
Then Daniel walked into the kitchen.
Same blue button-down shirt.
Same tired expression.
Same keys in his hand.
His eyes moved from Emma to the kitchen clock, then back to me.
“Morning,” he said.
Emma glanced up.
“Morning,
