Even Marit has been drawn in, the Tavishes regaling her with talk of their terrier, bless them. I peek around the corner and see why—Pixie rests in Mrs. Tavish’s lap, well behaved and placid. Max stands beside Marit, wedged between chairs with his head in her lap, while she slowly strokes his brown fur. I’d scold him for begging for scraps, but I don’t think that’s happening tonight. They say dogs know when people need comfort. I’m glad he’s chosen her.

Everyone processes this differently. We all have our way of submitting to what’s inevitable.

There are those like the Pikes and the Tinkers, drowning their fear in an overabundance of merriment, and there are those who remain silent among us like Ernie Withers, listening hard to the chatter with a forced smile to stave off terror, or Gemma Smith taking one small spoonful of soup at a time, a swallow, a breath, hands pressed against the tablecloth.

Matthew is not among the silent ones. He sits next to Mrs. Wickett and engages her in conversation throughout the meal, his expression so light and relaxed I hardly recognize him.

He glances up at me and, this time, doesn’t look away. Something communicates, so fervent I swear everyone at the table can see it. There’s a connection between us still. A shining thread.

He turns back to Mrs. Wickett, offering her more wine, and everything is normal again. Her wrists are thick with gauze, and if anybody takes note of it, they don’t let on. I hope she’s glad to be here after all, to taste the soup and laugh with Matthew for one more night at least.

“All present and accounted for?” I hear Tim Blanchard ask Brian down the table.

Brian chews his bread and carefully swallows before answering. “Yep, we’re all here, by my tally.”

There are more than a few furrowed brows at this. Ernie Withers dabs sweat from his forehead with his napkins. I connect the dots, the red dots, the crosses. Everyone here means that no one’s sheltering in place. No one’s died without us knowing while we ate and laughed and made speeches. Still three to go, like it or not.

“It was a late one last time,” Jo says, to nods.

She looks to Matthew, and he replies with a faint, pained smile.

His family must have been last, seven years ago. He must have thought they were safe, or nearly. So close to the end, to sunset, and then that fire swept through, too fierce for his wife to escape, his little girl, four years old, pinned, suffocating, burning. Jesus, I hope it was faster than what I’m imagining.

“Time before that,” Lannie Joiner says, his words slurring a little, “we were all wrapped up by five o’clock. Got a bit sloppy at that dinner, didn’t we?”