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Bo’s at his buddy Theo’s birthday party across town. A kid he actually likes, a house he’s been to a dozen times, parents who know his deal and keep the good snacks and a quiet room in case he needs one. Bo’s fine. Bo’s having a better Thursday than any of us.

Which left me with a rare thing. An evening off, and nobody to watch.

And Dottie, who does not miss an opening, looked at me over dinner last night and said, real casual, “You should come to bingo. You never come to bingo.” Like she wasn’t personally the reason I never come to bingo. Like she just happened to want her grandson in a bingo hall on the one Thursday a certain therapist was also going to be here.

I came anyway. I’m not proud of how fast I said yes.

Now I’m sitting across from her, nursing the coffee they poured me the second I sat down, and I’m watching the door.

I haven’t seen Olivia since Monday. Since her kitchen. Since I had her backed against her own counter with all that careful composure coming apart in my hands, and then my phone rang and I had to walk out and go rebuild a Lego city with a kid in meltdown, and we never got to finish the sentence we started. We’ve texted since. Nothing too deep. Both of us circling it like a hot stove.

So yeah. I’m watching the door.

And then it opens, and she walks in.

Jeans, a soft green sweater, hair down. She stops just inside and scans the room the way she scans every room, casing it, finding the exits, and I get to watch her do it for a second before she finds us.

She spots Dottie first. Her whole face opens up. She lifts a hand and starts across the room.

Then she sees me.

She stops. Dead. One beat, right there in the middle of the bingo hall, and I watch it land, the surprise, and then something under the surprise, something warmer, and then she smiles. Big.

She keeps walking. Faster now.

Beside me, Dottie doesn’t even look up from her card.

“Well,” she says, marking a free space with entirely too much satisfaction. “Looks like somebody’s happy to see you.”

Here’s what nobody tells you about bingo. It is not relaxing.

I thought it would be relaxing. Little old ladies, some numbers, a nice easy evening. What it actually is, is a blood sport with snacks.

The woman running the caller’s mic, Delores, pulls the first number, and the whole hall goes silent and lethal. Daubers up. Eyes down. Ruth has four cards going at once and defends them like a goalie. Carol keeps a lucky ceramic frog by her elbow and touches it before every number. Fran, who twenty minutes ago was cradling my face, elbows me hard enough to bruise when I reach for a pretzel.

And then there’s Olivia.

I should have known. The woman labels her spice jars. The woman cut her enchiladas into a grid. Of course she plays bingo like she’s defusing a bomb.

Card squared to the edge of the table, dauber held like a scalpel, not talking, not smiling, tracking Delores’s every syllable with the focus of a sniper. When a number hits, she marks it in one clean, decisive stab, dead center of the square, no smudge, and goes right back to waiting.

“B-4.”

Stab.

“N-31.”

Stab.

“She’s good,” Dottie murmurs to me, proud, like she raised her.

Ruth reaches over and pats Olivia’s arm. “Breathe, sugar. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“I am having fun,” Olivia says, not looking up.

“You look like you’re taking an exam.”

“I find those enjoyable too.”