The water shut off.
Renita stood very still. She was forty-six years old, with an MBA she'd finished at night and a job running eleven operating rooms, and in that moment she felt she had nothing in her hands at all.
"I'm not ready to talk about this," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not forgiving you because you said a nice thing in a shop."
"I didn't say it to be forgiven." He picked up the gear and held it out to her, flat on his palm. "Look at it, at least. He cut every tooth."
She didn't take it. But she looked. Twenty perfect teeth, catching the fluorescent light. Her son's work.
Dez came out of the back with his hands red from scrubbing.
"Get your coat, baby," Renita said. "I'll drive you home. Daddy, you've got your car."
"I do."
In the car Dez held the gear in his lap the whole way, wrapped in a shop rag. Neither of them said anything until they were on 490 heading east, the city lights coming up ahead.
"Mom?"
"Mm."
"Are you mad at Grandpa or at me?"
She drove a full exit before she answered.
"At Grandpa," she said. "Some. At me, mostly. Not at you."
"Are you going to sign it?"