When he finished talking about his mother, he slipped between his lips one of his thick kiwi and tuna rolls, letting the dark soy sauce gather and sit at the corner of his mouth. She took her chopsticks from their thin white paper sleeping bag and snapped them apart in a sharp quick way that told him she was not having a good time. She slowly rubbed them together to free the jagged splinters from the soft wood. This motion reminded him of the way a chef sharpens a blade along a metal cylinder to prepare for an expert carving.