She began cooking the stew at 5:41 A.M. on Thursday. Somewhere in the night her husband had, as was his habit, moved to the middle of the bed, and she’d found herself precariously perched between his chest and the edge of the mattress, the inhabitant of an inconsequential strip of bedding that had, over the past few years, become her home. He could be moved from his position only through great violence. She would have to yell and kick and deliver elbows to his ribs. She would have to put her lips close to his ear and say, in as menacing a tone as she could muster, “You’re on my fucking side.” Only then might he shift a foot and a half to his right, apologizing absently as he did. Some days she believed that she should be more accepting of his nightly migrations. Other days she believed that, if he’d really wanted to, he could have been thoughtful even in sleep.