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The porcelain’s pattern is the same blue as the imprint of his hand around her arm. Tomorrow it will turn purple, then yellow; but today it’s fresh and bright, pretty in a way, reminiscent of scorpion grass and cornflowers on hillsides in spring. Callie taps the spoon against the rim, twice, and wipes a spilled drop with her thumb.

She longs for her mother: sharp eyes, hard mouth. The tea is her recipe, her gift, passed down from woman to woman, unsavory gospel needed heartbreakingly often.

“To help settle your stomach,” Callie kisses his forehead. He’s been complaining of it, as of late, along with the tingling in his fingers the doctor attributes to age. She’s wearing sleeves; he doesn’t like to see he’s hurt her. The bruise will get better. His health will get worse. Callie waits patiently for both.