Ryland had a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, which Colin had clocked when they’d come through the door but hadn’t thought much of. Ryland always had papers. He read constantly on subjects that ranged from soil microbiology to the structural failings of Victorian plumbing. Colin had once found a highlighted printout about the optimal pH of sourdough starter wedged between the sofa cushions after a Sunday visit, annotated in Ryland’s small, precise handwriting with notes that included the phraserequires further investigation.
The lamb came out well. Colin carved it at the counter while Stephen laid the table, working around each other in the narrow kitchen the way they’d done since Stephen was old enough to reach the cutlery drawer. Diwa hovered near the doorway until Colin handed him the gravy boat and pointed him at the table with his chin.
The kitchen table seated four if nobody minded their elbows touching, and tonight two of the four minded very much.Stephen had angled his chair towards Ryland, while Diwa kept adjusting his as though a few extra centimetres of clearance might protect him from Stephen’s peripheral vision.
Colin served the meal, simple and hearty; Lamb, roast potatoes, carrots, and peas from a tin because frozen ones were a con. Stephen poured the Malbec. The silence that settled over the table had a density to it that choked out the possibility of conversation.
Ryland cleared his throat. “I’ve come prepared,” he declared. He set the sheaf of papers on the table beside his plate, squaring the edges against the wood with both hands. “I read that structured questions reduce conversational entropy in unfamiliar group settings, particularly across generational and class divides.” He looked up. “Both of which are present here. Colin is, after all, twelve years older than Diwa.”
Stephen inhaled his wine. His coughing was immediate and spectacular. Colin reached across and smacked his back with the flat of his palm, twice, firmly, while Stephen spluttered into his napkin and Diwa’s hand froze on the salt grinder.
“Right.” Colin withdrew his hand, picked up his knife and fork, and cut a piece of lamb. “Go on then, love.”
Ryland’s posture straightened. His hand moved to the top page, fingertip resting at the edge, ready. Colin felt a surge of affection for him; Ryland had come to this table armed with research and good intentions, and Colin was going to sit here and answer every single question of his, because this was the alpha’s way of trying to help.
Ryland squared the top page against the table edge one final time, aligned his pen beside it, and looked up as though he were about to chair a board meeting.
“Question one.” He held up the sheet so everyone could see the numbered list, which ran to at least fifteen items. “On a scale of one to ten, how is everyone feeling about tonight? We’ll goaround the table. I’ll start.” He set the page down and placed his fingertip beside the number one. “I’m at a seven. I was at a six earlier, but the lamb has improved my outlook.”
Colin cut a piece of potato in half. “Six. It’s good to have my boys around me.”
“I’d rather be at a Welsh sheep farm right now, Ryland,” Stephen said, into his wine glass. Ryland’s pen moved. He wrote the response down in full.
“Ten,” Diwa said, brightly. “Ten out of ten.”
Stephen set his wine glass down and pinned the alpha under a glare. “You are not at a ten out of ten.”
“I am, though. I’m having a great time. The lamb is incredible, the Malbec is excellent, and I’m with you guys, which is —”
“Nobody is at a ten out of ten, Diwa. That’s not how the scale works. A ten is a theoretical ceiling. It’s like saying the meal is flawless, the company is perfect, and nothing in your life could possibly improve, which is objectively untrue because you’ve been sweating through your shirt since you sat down.”
Diwa’s hand went to his collar. “I’m not sweating.”
“You are. There’s a patch soaking through.”
Ryland tapped his pen against the table, twice, reclaiming the floor. “Stephen, self-reported wellbeing scores are subjective by design. There is a well-documented tendency for respondents to inflate, particularly in social settings where they want to appear agreeable.” He glanced at Diwa. “Which may be relevant here. But the methodology requires that we take each person’s score at face value. If Diwa reports a ten, we record a ten.”
He wrote10beside Diwa’s name, drew a small bracket beside it, and added, in parentheses, a note that Colin couldn’t quite read but suspected said something likepossible inflation.
“Right.” Ryland turned the page over and ran his finger down to question two. “Next. What is one thing you appreciate about the person sitting to your left?”
Stephen looked to his left, where Diwa was dabbing at his collar with his napkin, and the expression on his face could have curdled the gravy. Colin ate his potato and waited.
Stephen folded his arms across his chest. “Pass.”
“There’s no pass option,” Ryland said. “I didn’t build a pass option into the framework.”
“I’ve decided just now that there’s a pass option.”
“You can’t unilaterally and retroactively modify the methodology mid-session. That would compromise the data.”
“Ryland, we’re not gatheringdata, we’re having a family dinner!”
“Stephen.” Colin’s voice was mild, which was worse than if he’d shouted. “Answer the question, love.”
Stephen exhaled through his nose in a way that conveyed, to everyone at the table, that he was being subjected to a form of cruelty that the Geneva Convention would find inappropriate. His thumbnail rubbed against the edge of his napkin and began pleating it into careful folds.
“Fine.” He didn’t look at Diwa. His gaze stayed fixed on the gravy boat. “He doesn’t touch my dad first.”
