Major Mosschops left the table in a huff. Under his breath, I could hear the creaky machinations of his weary lungs grinding their war-torn gears. He gave me an icy stare as he passed, which I promptly took to the freezer to save for later use. On my way to the kitchen, a crumb fell by the dog’s food dish, which the dog ravenously ate. Fortunately, the dog did not touch the crumb I had dropped, so I retrieved and delicately placed it in a Ziploc bag with the rest of the stare.

Back at the table, somebody asked if anyone was up for a rousing bout of Scrabble. I put my coat on and left the party, having no love for the game.