Two hours before Mitchell arrived, the pavilion on the eastern side of Druid Hill Park smelled of charcoal, cut grass, and the cinnamon in Mrs. Washington's sweet potatoes. Sunlight passed through old branches and broke into bright patterns on the picnic tables. Baltimore traffic murmured in the distance, but inside the pavilion there was only music from a portable speaker, children running between the trees, and relatives disagreeing pleasantly about where to put the drinks. A handwritten sign near the walkway announced Marcus's eighth birthday in letters he had helped decorate himself.
James stood on a folding chair fastening the last corner of a red-and-blue banner. He stepped down, tilted his head, then climbed up again to straighten it. Maya watched from the food table with a roll of tape stuck to her wrist and powdered sugar on the front of her shirt. She had spent the previous evening baking a chocolate cake, and she had refused to let James pay a bakery for something she wanted to make herself. Now she was placing a final plastic figure on the center of its web-shaped frosting.
"You're checking that banner like it's supporting a bridge," she called.
"A bridge would be easier," James replied. "Bridges don't have eight-year-olds waiting to judge the symmetry."
Maya laughed and set down the cake topper. Her laughter had been one of the first things he loved about her, back when they were two college students sharing bad coffee and worrying about examinations. Eight years of marriage had changed the circumstances of their lives without changing that sound. They had learned to move cities, survive long separations, and protect small family rituals from the demands of his profession. But lately even Maya's laughter had carried a little caution around the edges.
James surveyed the park once more. A minivan had pulled into a reserved parking space; the woman stepping out was waving with both hands because she had spotted her sister near the pavilion. A delivery cyclist rolled along the path, a dog strained against a leash, and three boys chased one another across the grass. James noted each movement almost without knowing he was doing it. Training had built habits into his body that eight months in an ordinary neighborhood could not remove.
"James," Maya said softly as he climbed down. "I see you doing it."
He turned toward her. "Doing what?"
"Counting exits. Looking at cars. Deciding where you'd put people if something happened." She took the tape from his wrist and rested a hand against his chest. "I know you have reasons. But can he have one afternoon?"
James followed her gaze to Marcus, who was chasing his cousin Trey around a cluster of trees. The boy was wearing a Spider-Man shirt and sneakers he had insisted were fast enough to outrun anybody. He had taken his birthday seriously for three months, counting down the days on a calendar while pretending not to know about the gifts hidden in the hall closet. He had no idea how much James needed this afternoon to remain ordinary.