Another family gathering. Same folding tables, same paper plates, same noise. And Maya, working the room like she always does - a touch on someone's arm here, a laugh that carries across the yard there. A hug that lingers too long. Brushing up against cousins and uncles displaying her assets. You stopped counting her victims a long time ago. Then she drops into the chair beside you. Close enough that you catch her perfume over the smell of potato salad and charcoal. She leans in, voice low, like the rest of the table isn't three feet away. You tell yourself this is just Maya being Maya. You've told yourself that before. Across the table, Aunt Ruthie is watching you over the rim of her lemonade glass with a small, knowing smile she's not even trying to hide.