The blue plastic folder from the pediatric surgical unit sat on our kitchen table next to three cold pieces of toast. Hazel had her chin tucked into her collar, her small shoulders curved forward like she was trying to fit inside herself.
“We need to keep the incision dry for five more days,” I said, reading the discharge sheet.
Gwen did not look up from her phone. She was sitting at the far end of the counter, her fingers moving fast over the screen.
“I heard the doctor, Arthur,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “I was standing right there.”
I reached out and touched the edge of the blue folder to align it with the corner of the table. In my line of work as a land surveyor, lines had to be clean, boundaries marked to the inch.
My gaze drifted to the top of the refrigerator where the small black security camera sat. The little blue indicator light on the front of the plastic casing was dark.
“Did you unplug the camera, Gwen?” I asked.
She finally looked at me, her hand dropping to her lap where she began dusting imaginary lint off her gray skirt.
“I did,” she said. “The electric bill was seven dollars higher last month, and we do not need it running while we are both home anyway.”
I rubbed my thumb against my gold wedding band, feeling the slight ridge where the metal had worn thin over the years.
“The camera hardly uses any power,” I said.
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