The café door swung shut behind James. He was already turning toward the curb when Evelyn's voice stopped him—not loud, not soft. Precise.
“James."
He turned. “I have to go."
“You will," she said. “But listen first. Six months ago I called you at three a.m. because I had a fever and couldn't stand. You told me to call an ambulance because Grace's dog was missing. I stayed in the hospital a week. You didn't visit."
His mouth opened, closed. “I—"
“Three months ago," she continued, “on my birthday, I asked if you could come by to cut the cake. You texted, 'Grace has a 37°C fever, I'm at the hospital.' Thirty-seven. You sent a cupcake emoji at midnight."
He looked like he'd been slapped with a calendar. “I didn't realize—"
“You never realized," she said, not angry. Done. “Go help Grace
