“Charlie, I’m busy. You’re on Tik Tok.”

The doorbell rang again. Dad appeared from the garage, wiping his hands on a towel.

“I’ll get it.”

I went back to arranging plates. Four place settings. Small Thanksgiving this year. Just us. Mom said she wanted intimate. I think she meant less work.

I heard the front door open, then silence, then Dad’s voice.

“Can I help you?”

A man’s voice, rough, quiet: “I’m sorry to bother you on Thanksgiving. I was wondering, do you have any food you could spare?”

I froze. Mom appeared in the dining room doorway. We locked eyes. A homeless man at our door on Thanksgiving.

“Um…” Dad’s voice was uncertain. He walked out and closed the door behind him, then came back in.