Page 111 of Dial F for Finance

I approach the bench, stepping into their line of sight before I speak.

“I brought mud water,” I say, holding out a steaming cup to Dustin.

He wrinkles his nose, his Mets cap pulled low over his red-rimmed eyes. “I hate coffee, Jenny. You know that.”

“It’s hot chocolate,” I say deadpan. “But if you’d rather maintain your outrage, I can drink it.”

A tiny, reluctant smile breaks through his misery. He takes the cup. “Thanks.”

I hand the second cup to Hannah. She takes it, wrapping both her hands around the warm cardboard. Her expressive eyes meet mine, and she frees one hand just long enough to sign thank you.

I shift the carrier to my hip and raise my free hand, tapping my fingers to my chin and pulling them down. You’re welcome. It’s a little stiff, lacking her grace, but it’s accurate.

A few feet away, Hannah’s mother shifts her weight. “You sign?” she asks, her voice catching with genuine surprise.

I turn to her, keeping my posture relaxed. “We’re all learning. Hannah mentioned to Dustin that it was difficult for her to follow the cross-talk when she came to the house for Sunday dinners. It’s too chaotic.” I offer the last cup in my carrier to her, and she takes it automatically. “So, the family started a group chat. We learn a new sign or phrase every day. We’re not great at it yet, and Esteban tends to shout while he signs, which entirely misses the point. But we’re trying.”

Hannah’s mother stares at me, her coffee completely forgotten. She looks past my shoulder to where Dustin is currently blowing on Hannah’s hot chocolate to cool it down for her, completely oblivious to his audience.

“A group chat,” her mother repeats softly, the rigid line of her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.

“It’s pretty chaotic.” I pull my phone out and swipe open the screen. “But everyone in their family is taking part. Dustin is leading it. He’s pretty tough on anyone who doesn’t present their homework.”

The chat name is ridiculous: TALK TO HANNAH!!!!! with so many exclamation marks and hand emojis that they look like they’re trying to escape the screen.

Hannah’s mother takes the phone when I offer it.

She scrolls. “May I?”

I glance at the screen where her thumb hovers over a video. “Be my guest.”

She taps and the screen fills with Helena repeating the same phrase four times, getting progressively more frustrated. The next video is Esteban signing like he’s addressing a stadium. Then there’s Dominic in his office, sleeves rolled, watching Dustin’s video on one screen while correcting his own hands on another.

Then mine.

At Dominic’s kitchen counter. Him behind the phone, correcting my form until I tell him his is worse and he should focus on his own fingers.

Hannah’s mother’s face softens.

“You do this every day?” she asks quietly.

“Dusty sends a new lesson every morning. Dominic and I usually practice after dinner.”

Her thumb traces the edge of the phone once, slow.

“You have no idea how much this means,” she says. “People try to include Hannah, but they don’t include her. They expect her to keep up. To translate herself. To smile through things she didn’t catch.”

I glance at Hannah.

She’s signing to Dustin, completely absorbed in him.

Hannah’s mother hands the phone back to me, the screen going dark as her fingers release it. There’s a fragile, unspoken truce settling between us, built on the absurd foundation of our terrible sign language videos.

“Thank you for showing me that,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” I say softly. “It’s about making sure she doesn’t have to work so hard just to exist in the room.”

Before either of us can say anything else, the heavy glass door to the administrative wing clicks open. Dominic steps out into the bright afternoon sun. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his stance loose but commanding—the unmistakable posture of a man who just successfully negotiated a necessary deal. He catches my eye and gives a single, sharp nod.