She moved across the kitchen in a tired shuffle, her head bowed, shoulders drooping. The beige dressing gown she wore looked new, much like all her other clothing, but she carried premature old age as she moved. Kane smiled sombrely and sat at the breakfast bar with a sigh. ‘Black, please.’ She worked on her upper lip with her teeth as she handed him a cup and sat down opposite him, picking at an invisible spot on the countertop. She sniffled, sipped at her coffee, and looked away. Kane could see her eyes blinking frantically as she tried to hold back her tears. ‘I think they said it might rain later today,’ she offered, steering the conversation in a mangled and pointless direction. He didn’t respond, didn’t know what to say. Margaret returned her attention to the counter, scratching with a fingernail, rubbing with a thumb. She wet her lips with her tongue and sniffled again. ‘How are you?’ she asked. He shrugged. ‘I’m good,’ he lied. ‘Thanks for—you know—letting me stay the night.’ Her smile was momentary, obligatory.
