I watched my sister out of the corner of my eye as we ate, her fork pushing around the rice, mushing it up with the beans. My mother stares at her too, scrutinizing every move of the fork as it dances around the plate, then pierces a sliver of chicken, pressing it against a napkin, squeezing the juices out, and dropping it back on the plate. We keep watching as she continues, wringing each piece into a dry slice and dumping it into the growing pile of flavorless poultry. When there was none left she paused, chewed on her lip, before moving back, shoving her plate to the side of the table. My mom’s voice thundered through the silence, ordering her to sit back down and finish her food, and she huffed, a whisper of breath slipping past her lips, picking the fork up again and sitting back down. The air was heavy, the tick tock of the kitchen clock maddening as we waited. I saw the unsteady rise of each bite, fingers gripping the tool like a shovel, forcing it past withered lips. I studied the movement of her mouth, the creep of yellow into her teeth, grinding the meat into a powder and gulping it down with a grimace. At last the plate was clear; chair scraping against the floor, my sister left. The air was still – no one moved, breathed, thought. Then, the faint trickle of running water. My mom silently stood up and followed, ear pressed against the bathroom door, and my dad popped a beer open, humming.