At the center table, Steve Harrington holds court. He’s leaning back in his plastic chair, one arm slung over the back of Nancy Wheeler’s. His smile is easy, practiced. Tommy H. is recounting some basketball play, and Steve laughs on cue, the sound bright and hollow.

His eyes, though. They keep drifting. Across the room. To you.

But his knuckles are white where he grips his fork. And when Nancy rests her hand on his arm, he doesn’t lean into the touch. He goes very, very still.