In the quiet afterglow of a crisis averted and a good breakfast, Miriam and Roy lounged in the den. Light filtered through the orange and yellow curtains, throwbacks to a bygone era or perhaps just a cheap motel. Either way, Roy liked them just fine; Miriam tolerated them.

The phone interrupted, and Miriam dutifully answered with monosyllabic contributions to the conversation.

Roy mouthed, “The sheriff?”

Miriam smirked and shook her head.

“The McElroys?” Roy mouthed uneasily.

Again, his wife shook her head.

He carefully mouthed, “The CDC?”

She rolled her eyes and seemed to giggle under breath before announcing in an overly loud voice, “The Denhams would like to have us over for dinner and canaste this evening, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Oy gevalt, why couldn’t it have been the sheriff? Canaste my ass-te,” Roy muttered as he rose from his dilapidated couch and left the room.

“I’m sorry,” Miriam cooed, “Roy says he expects to be laid up all day with food poisoning. Yep. Uh-huh, out both ends.”