The knife went through the crust of the rye bread with a dry, clean scrape.
I had paid five dollars for the vintage cream-colored knitting needles that made the beach bag on the table, and three dollars for the lukewarm black coffee sitting in my mug by the sink.
The ham was laid out on a sheet of waxed paper, five thin slices that I had aligned with the edge of the wooden cutting board.
Gia stood by the toaster, sliding three separate cotton shirts into that knitted bag, her movements quick and jerky.
She was seventeen, with her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot that was already coming undone at the nape of her neck.
“You should eat something before you go to Sarah’s,” I said.
“I am not hungry,” she said.
She did not look at me, her hands busy pushing a green tank top down into the bottom corner of the bag.
I set the knife down on the counter, making sure the blade was exactly parallel to the edge of the cutting board.
“That is too small for you now,” I said.
“It fits fine,” she said.
“It is inappropriate for a study session,” I said.
She tilted her chin upward, her shoulder high and stiff against the kitchen cabinet as she zipped the bag halfway.
I noticed the tiny gap in the cotton yarn near the bottom of her bag, a dropped stitch I had promised myself I would fix before the weekend.
“That stitch will run if you drag it on the sand,” I said.
“It is fine,” she said.
“You are sixteen miles from your biology exam on Monday,” I said.
“I am going to Sarah’s house to study,” she said, her voice dropping into that rapid, defensive run she used when she felt challenged.
“Sarah called here ten minutes ago looking for you,” I said.
I tapped my wedding ring against the edge of the laminate counter, three quick clicks.
Gia stopped packing, her thumb rubbing against a heavy brass keychain that hung from the cotton handle of her bag, the metal dull and scratched.
“I am going anyway,” she said.
