“Wil!” He hears Ruth’s voice calling him. “Wil!” He lets the swing come to a stop and looks toward the house. The windows are lit, and he can see Ruth silhouetted in the doorway.

“Yeah!” he calls. He is out of breath.

“It’s time to get ready for dinner!” she calls. “We need to leave in about twenty minutes!”

He finds the ground with his feet and makes his way to where he’s left the drill and flashlight. He picks them up along with the zip cord box and wrapping and heads inside to get ready for his birthday dinner.

Their table isn’t ready when they get to the restaurant. The hostess offers to seat them at another table, but Ruth has requested the table in the alcove specifically for the occasion.

“Another table is fine,” Wilson says.

“Another table is not fine, Wil. It’s your birthday.” Ruth crosses her arms. “We’ll wait at the bar,” she tells the hostess.

Ruth has two vodka gimlets. Wilson has a scotch. Ruth orders Isabelle a Coke with grenadine. That’s how she asks for it, “a Coke with grenadine,” instead of asking for a Roy Rogers, which, as Isabelle has told her many times, is the correct name for the drink. Isabelle says nothing.

Almost an hour later, they are finally seated at their alcove table. Ruth is hungry; she hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and she gets crabby when she hasn’t eaten. Wilson knows this and asks for a bread basket and menus right away. “And a vodka gimlet, please!” Ruth calls after the waitress. “I could eat a horse,” she says.

The waitress returns with Ruth’s drink, bread, and menus, and they are silent as they scan these, though they have been to this restaurant many times.

“Mmmm,” Ruth says. “I’m not sure whether steak or pasta sounds better. They both sound good. What are you going to have, Wil? They have crab cakes as a special appetizer tonight.”

“Do they?” Wilson asks. Crab cakes are his favorite.

“I read it on the specials board as we walked in. They must have known it was your birthday.”

Wilson smiles. “Must have.”

“I think I’ll have the steak,” Ruth decides, closing her menu. “And a Caesar salad to start.”

“That sounds good,” Wilson says.

Isabelle has taken a red crayon from the dish of them on the table, but instead of drawing on the kids’ placemat she’s been given, she draws directly on the sheet of white paper covering the tablecloth.

“I don’t know if you should draw right on there, Isabelle,” Ruth says.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Wilson says. “It’s paper. They replace it between meals.” He lifts the corner of the paper as proof.