There had to be a word for it, Beau thought, staring down at his plate. This strange feeling of something being simultaneously familiar and completely alien. It wasn’t his father, sitting at the head of the table, shoveling mashed potatoes and peas into his mouth, washing it down with sweet tea, and expounding on the uselessness of his hired help. It wasn’t his mom, wearing a dress and pearls just like she always did, and looking absolutely nothing like a farmer’s wife, nodding in mute agreement, occasionally fretting that the meal wasn’t to everyone’s satisfaction, and did Beau want a second glass of milk, or there was tea, or maybe a bit of cold chicken? It certainly wasn’t Lee, who spent the whole meal texting his girlfriend under the table.
No, the alien thing at the table was only hi
