“I’m making soup, though God knows why. It’s still so damn hot. Want some?” Sarah goes over to the stove and lifts the lid off a pan, giving it a stir. Her mother’s long gray hair is twisted on top of her head, held in place by two Japanese combs. She is wearing her work apron, ancient and brown and covered in paint.

“Love some,” says Lissa. She never refuses a meal at Sarah’s—her mother is a fantastic cook.

“Ten minutes,” says Sarah, putting the lid back on the pan. “And I’ll do a bit of salad to go with it.”

Lissa lifts the cat from one of the dining chairs and sits. The mess is, if anything, messier than usual: drifts of letters on the table, some opened, some not. Her mother’s periodicals: the New Statesman, old editions of the Guardian Review; missives from charities: Greenpeace, Freedom from Torture. One official-looking envelope is unopened and being used to make a list, Sarah’s elegant writing spidering across the paper.

Judy??

Cortisol? Ask Dr. L.

Ruby—pills.

“What’s wrong with Ruby?” Lissa looks up.

“Something with her tummy. Poor thing’s been puking and shitting for days. That vet. You wait years for an appointment, you really do.”

“How’s your hand?”

“Oh. You know.” Sarah flexes her fingers. “OK.”

“This one looks important.” Lissa lifts a letter and waves it at her mother.

Sarah turns back to the stove, dismissing her daughter with an airy hand. “Not really. You can tell by the envelope.”

“Really?”

“It’s a charity asking for more money. Or someone wanting me to take out a credit card.” Sarah plucks tobacco from the pocket of her apron and rolls herself a cigarette. “Cig?”

“Sure.”

Lissa takes the proffered packet, enjoying the sweetness of the sugared paper on her tongue as she rolls—always the same brand, always the same licorice Rizla papers, her mother’s fingertips, for as long as she can remember, orange-stained, her breath murky and low. Her mother is making work again, that much is clear; the apron, the mess, and a distant edge of manic energy to her, as though there is a gathering somewhere nearby, a better conversation happening in an adjacent room. She knows enough not to ask though, not this early in the game. Whatever Sarah is working on, it is new.

“Cumin.” Her mother is rattling in the cupboards. “Needs cumin. Course it does. Bugger.”

Lissa tosses the envelope back onto the pile where it triggers a minor landslide across the table, only stopped in its tracks by the fruit bowl. If her mother isn’t going to worry about unpaid bills, she isn’t going to do it for her.

“Sweet paprika?” Sarah turns, herbs in hand.

“Whatever you think, Ma.”

“I think it’ll have to do. It’s just—cumin seeds. I’m never without them. It’s odd.”

“Can I do anything?”