She hands him a glass of wine, which he takes gratefully, then ladles out stew, sprinkles parsley over the top, and hands Nathan his bowl. She takes her place at the table before her husband, aware of a slight sense of ceremony. It is Saturday; she is allowed to eat and drink what she likes. She sips the wine. It is clean and hard and bright and she could down it in one gulp, but she puts it back on the table beside her plate. Discipline. This is what she has always had, and this is what she has brought to bear on this situation. No caffeine. No alcohol. Apart from Saturday nights.

Nathan looks up at her, catches her watching, reaches his hand across the table and takes hers. “This is delicious.”

“Thanks.”

“How about you? Did you work today?”

“A little, this morning. And then it was too gorgeous out, so I walked to the park.”

“Hey,” he says, “I meant to tell you, I saw Lissa.”

“Lissa? Where?”

“At the library. Yesterday.”

“The library? What was she doing there?”

“She said she wants to do some reading, for a PhD.”

“That’s funny. I’d never have imagined that.”

“Well. You know Lissa. She seemed a bit haphazard about it all.”

He reaches for the bottle. She watches as he pours himself another glass.

“Nath?” she says softly.

“What?”

“I thought . . . it’s daft really, but I had this thought, earlier in the week, when I started the injections. When I was there with the syringes . . . I wondered about doing some sort of . . . ritual.” The word tastes strange. As she speaks, a fresh wave of sweat forms on her forehead. She lifts her sleeve to dab it.

“What sort of ritual?” Nathan puts down his spoon, folds his hands in front of his chin. Rituals are what he teaches—they are his bread and butter.

“I don’t know.” She can feel herself begin to flush, the heat rising again. “Something to mark it. I mean, if we did . . . If we did do something, how would we go about it, do you think? What could we do?”

“Well,” he smiles, “you know, a ritual can be anything. It doesn’t have to be serious even. We can do something simple.” He reaches over and catches her hand. “We could light a candle or . . .” Then, when she doesn’t respond: “Or we could just do nothing. We could just wait and see.”

“Yes,” she says, embarrassed now, releasing her hand from his. “Yes. Let’s just wait and see.”

Lissa

“SWEETHEART.” SARAH OPENS THE DOOR, AND IMMEDIATELY begins walking back into the darkness of the hall. “Come in. Got something on the stove.”

Lissa follows her mother through the hall into the kitchen.