In the car, he adjusted the rearview mirror twice, then a third time for good measure. The habit seemed to soothe him, a small ritual to prove the world worked well when looked at in the right angle. Evelyn watched his hands and saw in them a kindness shaped into inherited control.
The road unspooled, and fields blurred before them. His shoulders stayed square as if a switch, somewhere behind his ribs, stayed on. Evelyn rested her head against the window and understood: the corrections at home weren’t about dirt or manners. They were the choreography of discipline masked as love.