Chapter eighteen
Arthur
Dinner is different.
Same table. Same time. Same food Henry reliably eats without complaint. I keep things predictable because predictability works. It always has.
But Lindsay sits with us now, positioned across from Henry, attentive without being intrusive.
She watches more than she speaks.
Good.
I don't need drama added to an already full system.
My phone buzzes against the table. I glance at it reflexively—Tessa from ERS, checking in with a text.
How are things progressing?
I type back quickly.
Everything is fine.
She responds immediately.
I'm here if you need anything.
I pocket the phone and turn my attention back to the table.
Henry is cutting his chicken into precise pieces, each one methodical. I've watched him do this a thousand times. The routine is familiar. Safe.
"How was school?" I ask.
"Fine," Henry says.
"Any problems?"
"No."
"Homework?"
"Already done."
I nod and move on. This is how our dinners usually go. Functional. Efficient. No problems to solve.
Then Lindsay asks a question I wouldn't have thought to ask.
"Who do you sit next to at lunch?"
Henry pauses. Fork hovering midair.
He glances at her, surprised—not defensive, just caught off guard by the specificity. The casualness.
"Um." He sets his fork down carefully. "Marcus. And sometimes Jenny, if she's not sitting with the other girls."
Lindsay nods like this is useful information. "What's Marcus like?"
"He's okay. He talks about soccer a lot." Henry shrugs. "Jenny's better. She's annoying, but she's smart."
