Iris jabbed her finger into the ignition switch, bent to flip the battery release, stood up out of the car with a satisfying click of her heels — half-inch, almond-toed, goldenrod-and-milk-chocolate oxford — and swung the car door closed with a content sigh. Against the back wall of the garage, the nozzle was hanging off its latch; she was rushed this morning.

She picked up some doughnuts on the way to the office. Double chocolate to Lila at Reception, so that she wouldn't say hi to Iris out loud and bring Wallace out of his office. Maple dip onto Terry's unoccupied desk with a smiley face drawn into the napkin, because she was probably still hung over. Old fashion glazed with a contrite smile to Margie, whom Iris secretly called Margaret in a nasally, snobbish imitation of her voice, but whom had been here even before Wallace got here, and to whom Wallace always unfairly turned for informal assessments on office productivity. Boston cream to Kai Wei, because he was her co-worker and she didn't want to make things awkward by not giving him something. Blueberry to Ken, with a coy wink. Good old chocolate glazed to Wallace, who took one look at her almond-toed, goldenrod-and-milk-chocolate oxford; at her sheepish smile; at her wide, sharp-lined eyes; and took the doughnut with an exasperated, indulgent snort. He shook his head a little and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, for decorum's sake. She waited until he had finished his perfunctory, limp lecture, and had sent her out of his office with a thick hand on the small of her back, before shuddering.

So, it was all okay.

She got to the nozzle, and bent down to take it up. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and spilled, unruly, across the ground. She stared at it, took a deep breath, and smiled tightly. Packed it all gently back, and zipped it shut with a decisive, punishing jerk. The closing zip gave the tip of her forefinger a vicious pinch; she frowned, deeply.

==

The bag was jerked open again at the back door, the keys snatched out and jammed impatiently into the lock, bruising its dull grooves. The door joints whined, protesting, but she dragged the key out anyway and tossed it lazily back into the bag, passing and silencing the joints with a habitual slam. The bag was stood with a muffled thump on top of the laundry machine, the zipper glaring weakly at her back in the sunset light. From out of her pocket, the cell phone met its gaze with a bright, helpless stare as it was carried out of sight.

In the bag, the tablet was forced upright. The purse, the lip balm, the pen, the notepad, the music player, the ear buds, and the water bottle leaned against it, around the keys, half pinned underneath the tablet's unforgiving edge.

The bag's thick leather and fabric sagged cautiously over the tablet, inching closer to the edge of the laundry machine. The zipper continued watching the doorway, biding.

==

"I'm home! Dinner smells great!" I hear Iris say as she enters from the back. In the stockpot the curry bubbles and pops. A thick drop spits out onto the ring finger of my left hand. I jerk with a hiss, dropping the ladle. I move over to the sink, running the finger under cold water. Some of the stuff had landed on the electronic element. I watch it sizzle and blacken, hypnotically.

Iris comes to stand beside me, frowning at the burnt spot and switching the stove off, giving the curry an impatient stir. Snagging a rice spoon while sliding past me, she flicks the lid open on the rice cooker, humming appreciatively at the smell, and sticks the spoon in for a little plow. The rice is perfectly moist, and comes easy off the bottom of the pot. I return to the stockpot, and bring the curry up past the dark gold sauce. Beef. Pale green celery. Creamy potato. Bright orange carrots. Cloud grey stockpot. And far above that, in my mind, the clear blue sky the slow streak of white —

"Mom?" Iris prompts me, setting a wide, deep plate down on the countertop beside the stockpot, two small bowls stacked in her other palm and two pairs of chopsticks pinched between the fingers. I look up quickly, afraid that she had seen something, but she only grinned habitually, and went to stuff the bowls with rice.

The TV howls, at volume thirty-five, with the sound of an airplane taking off. The anchor begins repeating his report on the final commercial flights, again. We sit with our curry and our rice, as the anchor sits to a video call with an on-board reporter.

Iris has a story for me. I trail after every word, fond and resigned. The view that the reporter shows the anchor out of the cabin window is of small houses and small cars, fast blurring in the bright noon. Iris pauses to say that the curry looks perfect tonight, just the way she likes it. The channel goes into a commercial break.

"Iris," I interrupt her daily rant, "there's something that I want to talk to you about."

She stops gesturing. "Okay?" She restarts, after a pause, and takes a first bite out of the curry, swallowing it down with a rushed gulp of water. Her eyes are wide, eyebrows raised and slightly furrowed. It is an unconscious quirk of concentration. Staring too hard and too long at the road every day, commuting to work. And suddenly, I feel my own frown. I reach up to knead it smooth again. It gives me a chance to look away.

I speak before she can take another bite, not wanting to ruin the curry, "I've booked a flight. Before the deadline. I'm going back."

The news channel title card begins blaring -- urgent, proactive, attentive, heraldic.

"-- You're going back?" Iris repeats over the news anchor.

She straightens and draws back from her bowl, puts it down. Lowers her other hand as well, still gripping the chopsticks.

These motions are deliberately smooth; small threats, storm gusts growling against your ear.

"Now? When are you coming back?" She presses shortly.

"Yes. Soon -- " I try to answer, putting my own bowl and chopsticks down. I try not to hunch, pushing myself up with my hands in my lap.

My guts don't quite straighten out. They fold a little, protectively.

"For what? Why?" Iris continues over me, faster and louder, lightning and thunder. "Why are you going back? Didn't we talk about this? Why are you going back?"

"Iris -- " I try.

"It'll cost more to come back, you have to apply for visas for everything now, it's more expensive and longer to wait, they're really strict about checking expenses at work now -- don't you understand?"

Her frown and wide eyes are back. She leans further back in the chair. Her chin rises. Her mouth stays locked open when she finishes, glare trained on me.

"I know all of tha -- " I try.

"Then what? What is it? Tell me," She rushes out, pelting, snatching the remote from the dinner table to turn off the news. I blink away toward the screen as it cuts to black.

"Mom," Iris barks, cocking her head sharply into my peripheral vision. "Mom? I'm trying to talk to you here. Talk to me. Can you please just talk to me for once? Why didn't you talk to me before this?"

"Iris, please calm down," I try.

"Fine," She challenges, head still askew.

I revel in the silence before my confession. My guts have pulled my spine protectively over itself. My hands curl away from clutching each other, crouch into tense fists. The wrinkles smooth out a little across my knuckles, flow into my palms.

"You know that the flights are stopping soon," I try.

"Yes," She counters. When Iris is provoked, her voice goes low, and it starts to sound like mine. When Iris is restrained, her words go impatient, and it starts to sound like one sentence. You know that the flights are stopping soon, yes?

"Right," I answer, "Well, your father's trying to set up some work with a colleague based here, so that he could still visit, and we could still go on his visa."

"Okay," She permits warily. We could still go on his visa, okay?

"And," I offer, "things are a little hard for him now. He could use some company, someone to help him. I may be retired, but I could still help him work out the appeals."

She pauses. Her head comes slowly upright. Her arms cross. Through its crosshairs I stare back at the barrel of her focusing glare. She breathes in, snorts with a victorious nod. I cringe, inwardly, tiredly, resignedly.

"Appeals," She shoots back.

"Yes," I say evenly.

"Appeals," She reloads, "You're going to do pro bono work for them. Dad still helping those friends of his? Are there more now? Did he join a group?"

"Yes," I resist.

"We can barely help ourselves, and you want to help them," She fires, simply and efficiently.

"We'll be helping ourselves in the long run too," I stumble.

"Then just help yourself," She capitalizes. "Why are you minding other people's business? Why are you making a mountain out of a mole hill? Why are you making it political?"

"We're not doing it on purpose to make a point, Iris," I get back up, suddenly angry. "It really will help out a lot of people, ourselves included."

"Then let them help themselves," She concludes, "what have they done for Dad that he has to do this for them?"

"Nothing," I start again. "It just happened this way. People are interested in this. People want to help."

"No — people want Dad to help, and Dad can't say no." She insists.

"It's not just your father," I am losing control.

"Fine. Then who?"

"I don't know, Iris. I guess colleagues. Employees. Other businesses. Immigration rights groups. I'll have to go to find out."

"You don't have to go, and Dad doesn't have to do this," She taunts. "You and Dad are just getting involved."

"We help others when and where we can. We've always believed in that—what goes around comes back around. You know that," I try to stop.

"You know what else I know?" She gives chase, gleeful, vicious. "You know what else goes around and comes back around? Challenging the law when you have no grounds and getting caught. Then running around whining about being caught when you were the one that started it in the first place."

"Unfair laws are meant to be changed," I try.

"No," She punches out forcefully. "Outdated laws are meant to be updated. We're about to run out of oil. We have to protect what's left. Do you want us to run out and not be able to travel at all?"

"Iris, we're going to run out not matter how much we protect what's left. We have to move towards alternatives, yes. But we cannot leave behind others while we move," I try.

She throws her arms up and apart, rolls her eyes incredulously, slams her hands back down on the table, barely missing the chopsticks and bowl of lukewarm rice. "Why not?" The questions wrenches her jaw open angrily.

"Because our family is over there," I lose control -

She launches up from her chair. My gut cramps further back. My shoulders pinch to keep my head up over my slouch. My nails dig into my palms, into the groove of wrinkles and calluses.

"Don't you fucking dare," She begins slowly, smoothly, the snarl of the fuse. "Don't you fucking dare say that I don't care," the screaming explosion. "I'm the one who's trying to keep us together. I was the one who applied to be an immigration coordinator. I was the one trying to get a job with a family visa. I am the one who knows what's important. Do you?"

"Your father is important to me," in the deafening noise, I try to hear myself. I hope that the vibrations of my throat travel down, into my lungs, into my spine, into my guts.

"Of course. Of course Dad couldn't possibly be important to me," She spits the lure with a harsh laugh.

"Iris -" I take the bait.

"You know what—I don't want this," She jerks away, snatching up the bowl of rice and chopsticks. I watch, hooked, as she rounds the kitchen island to the sink, sticks the chopsticks into the rice, upends the bowl, and scoops everything out over the drain catcher. "I don't feel like eating anymore," She declares, pushing the faucet roughly on to the highest volume, flooding the small bowl.

I stop trying.

"At least eat something—it's not good to go without a meal," I surrender.

"You finish it," She lays out the terms, shutting off the faucet and coming back around to the living room.

"There's enough for two," I beg for mercy.

"I'll pack it up later for lunch tomorrow," She announces practically, unconditionally. "You go ahead and dig in." She passes the dining table and drops down against the couch. Grabbing the remote, she turns the television on to the news.

I stare at her profile. Then I look away, and I eat, shovelling the rice and curry slowly into my open gut.

==

The light to the laundry room snapped on, and the zipper blinked dully in its brightness. The purse, lip balm, pen, notepad, music player, ear buds, and the water bottle stood still, biding. The tablet and the bag stood balanced, biding. The keys lay flat, waiting.

"I'll call you tomorrow morning. We can talk about this again, okay?" They heard her mother say earnestly.

"Do whatever you want," They heard her reply dismissively.

"Okay," They heard her mother agree after a pause, opening the door gently. "I'll call you."

"Sure," They heard her finish tonelessly, holding the door open and pressing the button to raise the garage door for her mother. "Have a safe drive home."

"I will," They heard her mother start again, "Have a good night's rest, alright?"

They heard her shrug and hum noncommittally.

They heard the gas car start up and away. They heard the garage grating shut. They heard the door slamming close. They heard the whisper of her elbow against the bag as she whirled angrily back around.

Now, they rustled, and leaned all the way over.

==

Iris stared down at her spilled bag, ears ringing and with the brunt and smash of electronics on flesh and linoleum. The corner of her tablet dug bruisingly into the bone of one foot.

She breathed in, shuddered. Held her breath in, and moved her feet out carefully from under the spill. Held her breath in, and left the laundry room, heavy and silent. Held her breath in, and put her entire hand over the light switch to muffle its click into darkness. Breathed out slowly all her built up carbon dioxide against the newly painted wooden frame of the doorway.

Now, she gasped, and drank that permission in violently, through clenched teeth, feeling it spill dizzily and suddenly out of her wide eyes. Her stomach began to heave with a crawling scream, and she leaned, all the way over.