The living room smelled of stale coffee and the faint, clinging sweetness of Erica's vanilla-scented candle, the one she lit every evening to mask the scent of diapers and spilled juice. Stephen sat on the couch, his fingers drumming against the armrest, the rhythm uneven, like his pulse. The TV droned on. Some home renovation show Amy had put on earlier, but he wasn't watching. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard, the muscles in his neck tight as piano wire. Across from him, Amy perched on the edge of the armchair, her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for a job interview. She hadn't touched her glass of wine in twenty minutes. The chill had long since dissipated, leaving a lukewarm puddle at the bottom of the glass.

Bern, Amy's deadbeat husband, was late. Of course he was.