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“I need to put you on hold.”

“I only have two more—”

“I’ll return.”

I switched lines.

“Ma?”

“Pri.”

“What happened?”

Silence, then my mother’s wary voice. “Good morning to you too.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t we be okay?”

“You called.”

“I’m allowed to call my daughter.”

“At this time?”

“It’s not the middle of the night.”

No, it was worse. It was a Sunday morning during an event build, which my mother could not know because I had given her a carefully edited version of my schedule and omitted the part where I had slept four hours across two nights.

I let my breath out.

“Everyone’s fine?”

“Everyone is fine. Your brother wanted to know if you still had the number for the man who repaired your laptop.”

“Which brother?”

“The one who called me.”

This narrowed nothing.

“I’ll text it.”

“How are you?”

“I’m working.”

“On Sunday.”

“The event is tonight.”

“What event?”

“The museum gala.”

A pause.

“You didn’t mention a museum gala.”