“Where’s Frieda?” Ted asks.

“Feeding her babies downstairs,” Sylvia answers, stirring the baking soda and water into a paste. They can just hear Frieda from the playroom, the rise and fall of her toddler prattle mimicking with disquieting accuracy the fawning neighborly emptiness and bitter private remonstrances of adult conversation.

“What did the bee man say?” Ted asks.

“Not to run,” Sylvia answers.

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it,” he responds wearily, his words thick.

“I’m sorry,” she says, giving him a weak smile. “I was just trying to cheer you up.”

“What did he say for the stings?” Ted asks, unamused by Sylvia’s risk at humor.

She holds up the cup. “Baking soda and water paste.”

Ted sighs, pressing the ice pack lower, to his chin and jaw. “All right then. Shall I keep the ice on?”

“Yes, for a moment more.” She continues to stir the paste, the solids of which continuously separate from the liquid and settle in a silty clog at the bottom of the cup. “Did the dentist give you any painkillers?” Sylvia asks as she stirs.

“What?” Ted replies, his voice muffled and distracted.

“For your bad teeth. Did he give you anything yesterday in London, a prescription?”

Ted looks at her. She can’t gauge his expression; his face and his eyes are too swollen. His countenance is unreadable.

“No,” he finally answers.

Sylvia gapes at him, scoffing. “Unbelievable, the dentistry in this country. It’s barbaric. I thought the whole reason you went into London and not just Exeter was to see a better dentist. And still they didn’t give you anything?” She shakes her head, indignant for him. “How do your teeth feel?”

Ted’s chin drops; he looks at the floor. “My face is worse.”

They are quiet for a moment, listening to Nicholas, Frieda in the background, the scraping of the spoon in the cup.

“Did they fill your teeth, at least?” Sylvia asks, her tone more gentle.

Ted’s breathing is slow and measured. He sighs and pauses. “Yes.”

“Gold, I hope,” Sylvia mumbles.

Ted shrugs vaguely.

They give you sedatives, things to relax you. Then they scoop it out and you’re done.

Sylvia looks up at her husband, his weirdly colored, oddly distant face. “Does it hurt?” she asks quietly.

“Yes,” he answers, not moving his mouth.

“I’ll get you some aspirin in a moment,” she says tenderly. “I’ll finish the mowing, too. Can you take the ice away now?” she asks.

Ted withdraws the ice pack from his mouth, resting his hands in his lap. He sits utterly still as she surveys the welts on his head, on his ears, his neck, his lips.

“You look fine,” the nurse said nervously. “Just a little swollen.”