“What kind?”
“The long kind.”
“Spaghetti.”
“With cheese.”
“Reasonable.”
The cereal-fort boy crawled out. “I want eggs.”
“Then you can have eggs.”
Damon finally spoke.
“They eat one meal.”
Mara turned toward him.
“Why?”
“Because I am not running a restaurant.”
“Neither am I. I am getting four six-year-olds to eat actual food before eight. Those were your words.”
Ruth’s mouth twitched.
Damon looked at the clock.
“Fine.”
The butter-sock boy announced he wanted a grilled cheese sandwich cut into triangles, not squares. Mara told him where the bread was and asked him to put it on the counter.
He stared at her.
“You get it.”
“You want it.”
He considered that for a long moment, then padded carefully toward the pantry.
By 7:03, Mara had names.
Theo was the boy who had stood on the island. Miles had built the cereal fort. Benji had weaponized butter. The quiet one was Samuel.
By 7:11, she had three plates in progress and Samuel still watching.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
“Nothing.”
“Okay.”
“You’re supposed to ask again.”
“Why?”
He looked down at the folded dish towel in his lap.
“They always ask again.”
Mara dried her hands.
“Do you want me to?”
Samuel shook his head.
“Then I won’t.”
At 7:19, the other three boys were seated. Not politely. Theo had one knee under his chin. Miles was separating egg whites from yolks with a fork. Benji had already opened his sandwich to inspect the cheese.
But they were seated.
Damon checked the clock and looked mildly offended by reality.
Mara put a glass of water in front of each child.
Samuel remained on the stool.
“Eight o’clock rule,” Damon said.
Mara did not turn. “I know.”
“All four.”
“I heard you the first time.”
The air in the kitchen changed.
Ruth stopped wiping the counter.
Damon’s voice dropped. “Be careful.”
Mara met his eyes.
“About what?”
“Mistaking temporary patience for authority.”
