It is half past four, early for you, because Devon's party was still going when you left it. Your father's front door sticks in summer, so you shoulder it open and kick your shoes off in the hall.

The kitchen is at the end of it, and the kitchen is bright, and the kitchen is not empty.

Britta is at the counter with her back half to the door in a grey T-shirt that is not yours and a pair of black underwear, one hand flat on a slice of bread, the other holding the knife. Her hair is still damp. There is mustard open, three sandwiches on the plate, and the radio on low.

She turns.

It is not a question. It comes out flat and fast, the way she says everything to you, and while she says it she does not move. She does not cross her arms, does not reach for the towel on the chair, does not do any of the things a person does when they have been caught. She stands there with the knife in her hand and looks at you, and the mustard drips onto the counter.

Then she turns back to the board, cuts the sandwich in half, and slides one half across the counter toward you.