She watches as their waitress delivers food to the table behind theirs. The woman at the table has ordered a Belgian waffle with whipped cream and berries, and the man has ordered some kind of omelet with toast and potatoes. He doesn’t look at the waitress as she sets the food before him; nor does he look down at his food. His eyes are vacant, empty, and only when she notices the pole on the floor beside him does Isabelle realize that he is blind. He fumbles for his silverware. The woman with him unscrews the cap of the ketchup and pours some onto his plate. He reaches around for the salt and pepper, but there is none on the table, and the woman leans over and takes the salt and pepper from the empty table beside theirs. “Salt,” she says, handing the blind man the salt. “Pepper,” she says next, handing the shaker over.

“Isabelle.”

Isabelle turns around, startled by the sound of her name.

“Don’t stare,” her mother says, her voice low.

Isabelle blinks. She looks down at her cocoa.

“Ah, here she comes,” her father says as the waitress breathlessly approaches their table, pen and pad in hand. The waitress is named Beverly, and every time they come in here, she comments on how big Isabelle is getting, which bothers Isabelle only because it isn’t true.

“Such a busy morning!” she says. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Not a problem at all.” Isabelle holds her breath, willing her mother not to add something snide about being starving, or about how they must be understaffed, when she knows that there are always only two waitresses. But her mother is quiet, and Isabelle slowly lets her breath out.

“Okay, well, I know what the little lady over there wants; I already told the cook to get out some extra chocolate chips just for you.”

Isabelle looks with alarm toward her father, hoping that he remembers how much she liked his sandwich last time and will step in just to make sure that that’s not what she wants instead. But her father is peering through his reading glasses at the menu as if he doesn’t know what he’s going to have. Isabelle feels her heart flutter with frustration. A knot of anger tightens inside her chest.

“Well,” her father says. “The usual for me: egg, sausage, and cheese on rye.”

“Same,” her mother says.