"Yeah. Somewhere." He picked a leaf out of his hair and looked at it. "When's she getting it?"
"Tonight. At dinner."
"Okay." He looked at the bag again, and then — this is the part — he looked at his own phone in its sock on the counter, just for a second, a quick sideways glance, and then he looked at me. "Okay," he said again. "Cool. I'm going to shower."
I made tacos. That was Juni's favorite and it was easy to count: two corn tortillas, eleven grams each, cheese basically free, beans I'd have to guess at. Ximena's mother dropped Juni off at five-thirty and she came in talking about a hamster named Senator Pickles, and she ate a handful of grapes standing up at the counter before I could stop her, and I said, "Juni, those count," and she said, "I know, I bolused for them, look," and held out her phone to show me. She was right. She had. She was better at it than I was.
I set the table. I put the bag at her place, right on her plate, and I put her plate on top of the placemat with the map of the United States on it that she'd had since kindergarten, with Idaho colored in purple marker. And then I called them both.
I've thought a lot about what I expected. I expected her to squeal. She was a squealer. She'd squealed when we got the trampoline and when I'd let her get her ears pierced and when the endo told her at her last visit that her A1C was the best it had ever been. I expected her to hug me, and I'd have to tell her to be careful with the box. I had a whole little picture in my head. I'd been carrying it around since the parking lot.
Kellan came down first, his hair still wet, in a clean T-shirt. He saw the bag on her plate and he sat down at his place without saying anything and put his hands under the table.
Juni came down second. She saw the bag and stopped in the doorway.
"Surprise," I said. "Go on."
She came to the table slowly. She sat. She looked at the bag and didn't touch it.
"Juni, go on. Open it."
She reached into the bag and pulled out the box and set it on her plate. White, with the picture of the phone on the lid in pink. She turned it a quarter turn with her fingertips, so it was square with the edge of the plate. And then she just sat there with her hands flat on the placemat on either side of it, on Oregon and Wyoming, and looked at it.