After a minute, Isabelle sets her menu down.

Wilson looks at her. “Did you decide?” he asks.

Isabelle shrugs. Wilson hasn’t yet looked at his menu; he scans it quickly to see what Isabelle might like, since clearly she is not going to help him.

“Grilled cheese?”

Isabelle shrugs.

“Or chicken fingers. Would you rather chicken fingers?”

Isabelle shrugs again, and Wilson feels a small quiver of annoyance.

“Well, I’m going to have a BLT. Do you want to join me?” He bites his cheek to control the desperation he can hear on the edge of his voice.

Isabelle gives him a small smile and nods.

He tries to smile back. “Extra T and crunchy B?”

Isabelle nods and lets her eyes drop. Wilson can see that she is eyeing the crayons between them, and he lifts a blue crayon from the dish of them on the table. Then he lifts the dish and extends it toward her. “Want one?”

Isabelle makes a move toward the crayons with her hand, but then she hesitates and puts her hands down in her lap.

“Did you want the blue one?” Wilson offers, desperate at the thought that in trying to initiate this activity, he has ruined it by taking the blue crayon. Blue is Isabelle’s favorite color; how could he have been so careless?

Isabelle shakes her head, and Wilson sets the blue crayon back into the dish. The light from the jukebox is flashing; he watches the neon pink flash in Isabelle’s eyes as he looks at her. She looks down, and Wilson swallows. He has never known Isabelle to turn down a chance to draw.

“What is it, Belle?” The words are out before he has a chance to consider them.

Isabelle looks up at him again, quickly, and for just a moment, he thinks he sees her eyes begin to fill with tears. But then, just as quickly, they are dry, and he is almost disappointed. He wants her to cry. He wants her to be able to cry to him.

The waitress returns with their drinks then, bursting loud and sudden into their silence and knocking over the briefcase that Wilson has set beside their booth. “Oh!” she says. “I’m sorry!”

“No,” Wilson says. “I shouldn’t have left it there.” He leans down to move it underneath the table by his feet.

“Lemonade,” the waitress says, setting the drinks down, “and a coffee milkshake. Extra thick. And what can I get you all to eat?”

Wilson clears his throat and orders for them, two BLT’s, extra T, crunchy B, and the waitress leaves. Wilson sips his lemonade and watches Isabelle suck her milkshake through a straw, her cheeks fishlike with the effort.

“Good?” he asks. She nods.

Wilson moves to cross his legs and knocks his briefcase again. He bends to move it farther under the table, and as he does, he remembers the National Geographic he’d swiped from Dr. Steingold’s waiting room.