He sets the box down and wipes his brow. “I don’t want to impose.”

“We’re going to have plenty of leftovers as it is. Just grab a plate and some cutlery.”

Dad hesitates for a breath. Then he smiles. “Thank you.” Dad has excellent white teeth that light up the room when they’re on exhibit like that. “Let me get this box out first. And wash up.”

He whistles as he leaves the house. “My Girl,” I think the tune is called.

My mother sings along under her breath.

He bounds outside and in again and then I hear the taps. Back in the kitchen, he fills the door frame. A handsome guy, my dad. Wish I’d inherited his height. He sits down opposite me with his cutlery and a plate, which Mom fills with chicken and coleslaw. I already have mine.

Diesel shifts on his feet and whimpers. Will there be no food for me?

You’ll get your kibble after.

Kibble! He slumps down in disgust.

“Eat before it gets cold,” Mom tells me.

I bite into the crispy, salty skin; the dark meat melts under my tongue. Last time through, I could barely eat anything and it all tasted like nothing.

Diesel focuses his large toffee eyes on my mouth. I take another bite. He whimpers again, stands up, and nudges my knee. Please! I look around, then quietly slip him some of the skin.

“Don’t feed the dog from the table,” Mom orders. “You’ll only encourage him to beg.”

I won’t beg if you just give it to me.

I shrug at Diesel, who slumps down a second time, head between his paws. “Arowww!”

I’ll save you some, I tell him in my head. Then I eat my coleslaw, super sweet and mushy, just the way I like it. The bread is pale white, and as I smooth the square of butter across it, the fresh dough squishes down.

“Mmm, mmm. I am enjoying this meal with my family,” Dad says. “’Course, your salad is way better, Adele.”

“Uh huh.” Mom’s left eyebrow stretches. “I thought you didn’t like the way I put broccoli in my coleslaw.”

“Really? Did I say that?” Dad leans toward Mom and gives her his puppy eyes. “’Cause I miss broccoli in my life.” He reaches for her hand.

She smiles but bats his hand away. “Oh now, stop! You do not.”

Oh yes, he does! I think about our wiener roast on paper plates.

Dad opens his mouth, but the phone rings.

Diesel barks. Thing on the wall calling!

It rings again, and we all look in that direction. But Mom has a rule: we don’t answer during meals.

“Probably just somebody wanting to sell us something,” Mom says.

It rings again. “Wouff! Wouff!”

“Telemarketer,” Dad agrees. “The only job most people can get.” He stabs at his chicken with his fork and waves it at the phone. “Poor guy on the other end probably gets paid by the call.”

“Not like we can afford anything he’s selling.” Mom purses her lips and frowns as the phone gives its final ring.