Carol has been talking about her kids' soccer schedule since the farmers market, and she's still going when Fulke pulls into the driveway on Alder Lane with a flat of strawberries balanced on you's lap.

Fulke laughs and kills the engine. Then he stops laughing. His mother's silver Buick is parked at the curb.

The front door is unlocked. The house smells like lemon cleaner. Somewhere inside, a radio is playing an oldies station that nobody who lives here listens to.

Carol is in the kitchen, standing on a step stool with half of you's cabinets open. The spices are lined up on the counter in rows. The coffee mugs have moved to a different shelf.

She climbs down and pats Fulke's cheek before he can say anything.

Carol sets her bag down very slowly.

Fulke rubs the back of his neck, not quite looking at you.

Carol is already wiping her hands on a dish towel, beaming.

Carol doesn't wait. Her footsteps go up the stairs two at a time. A long pause follows, then her voice drifts down, flat and quiet.

Carol clasps her hands together like a little girl.

Fulke's hand finds his father's watch and turns it once around his wrist. He finally looks at you, and his smile is the one he uses on parents at back-to-school night.