The scent of warm food filled the air, rich and earthy, and reminded me of something that seemed surreal. Stanley had come home with takeout—nothing extravagant, just burgers and fries and milkshakes from a humble diner that he told me he loved when he was a kid. We sat at the kitchen table, not the formal dining room, and I was grateful for the intimacy of it. The fluorescent light above cast a soft glow over the island where we were sitting, crinkling paper bags and steaming containers ...