Your right hand is a fist in your pocket, knuckles white against the denim. The doctor is talking, and the words are clean, sterile, and utterly incomprehensible. They float in the air like dust motes in the shaft of light from the window-protocol, titration, contraindication, serum levels. You’re nodding, of course. You’re making eye contact. You are performing the role of the ‘Good Patient,’ the ‘Concerned Son,’ the responsible adult who understands. But inside your head, it’s just the sound of a dial tone.

Recalibrating Our Internal Rules

I’ll confess, I used to be that etiquette coach. I have simmered with righteous indignation at the sight of a blue-lit face in a dark restaurant. I’ve mentally condemned people scrolling through their feeds while in a checkout line, as if their momentary disengagement was a personal affront.