At the end of the line was Frank, a small man permanently bent forward at his waist. He had wispy grey hairs combed over his bald, sun-spotted head. He stopped and touched my hand. “Will you have dinner with us?” he said quietly. “There’s room at our table.” Anita — the taller, straighter woman beside Frank, who was clutching his elbow for support — smiled at me and said, “We’ll do some sorting. Would you like that? We can sort things together.”

Before I could say anything, Owen shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure, what’s for dinner?”