He ushered them in. Their movements slowed. The reason they were there settled back over them. Now they were standing in the small living room, crushed by numbness. He was the priest: what was keeping him from reading from the instruction booklet? The girl was picking at her iPhone case. The dead woman’s husband was looking anywhere that he could to avoid meeting another pair of eyes. 'Forgive me.' The mother. She’d asked for a glass of water. She thanked him and drank, shifting from a blank detachment to a dignified detachment. Her eyes were glistening. The noise of a chair slamming to the floor. The girl had tripped and now she was getting awkwardly to her feet, arrogant and irritated, grateful for the mishap. These were rich people. And even though they didn’t know how to behave – at every false step, the assignment of blame elsewhere – through the most unthinkable path, suffering had managed to find its way to them.