I know Wendy remembers that night, because for my last birthday she gave me an alligator clock. The smiling gator, two tones of bright green, clutches a fish—definitely smaller and weaker than he is—while another fish swings back and forth, waiting for his turn to be eaten.

Now, above my desk, the poor doomed fish was lulling me into memories of my sister. I had just consulted the clock—which routinely gains one minute per hour—because ten minutes ago, Wendy had texted me.

Privat call soon. B reddy. No 1 else.

As instructed, I was waiting, even though a party was getting started in the common area behind my shabby little duplex in Delray Beach, Florida. When the text arrived, I’d been enjoying a frosted mug of Cigar City Jai Alai and a plate of Sophie Synecky’s grilled pierogies and kielbasa.

Now Sophie came inside to find me.

My duplex is tiny, which is why the crew for Out in the Cold, the podcast I’m lucky enough to produce and host, was celebrating outside after fighting for space in my cramped living room for two hours. My office is the smaller bedroom of two. With my desk, a chair, shelves and files, there’s hardly room for air, but that never stops Sophie from barging in.

“Crew meeting was adjourned, Ryan. Work’s over for the day and tomorrow’s Sunday.” Sophie is Out in the Cold’s administrator, researcher and coproducer. She’s three sizes larger than she wants to be, and her long blond hair is turning gray, another attribute she dislikes but chooses not to address. Today she was wearing a voluminous flowered tunic over skintight white leggings. We both thought she looked fabulous.

“I’m expecting a call,” I said. “It’s personal.”

As I spoke, the photo on my computer screen changed. A shot of my sister and me in bathing suits, arms around each other’s waists, filled the space. There we were, me, short at five foot four, curling dark hair, squinting into the sun with my dimples in plain view, and Wendy, towering over me at five foot nine, her straight blond hair hanging over one shoulder, a smile lighting her face. Even the sun’s glare couldn’t stop Wendy from looking her best.

Looking at it now, I remembered the coconut-and-lime scent of our sunscreen, and later that evening, our mojitos. I remembered the sun on my shoulders and the air-conditioned bar where we went to get away from our parents. Wendy and I spent so little time together that those moments are etched in my memory.

Sophie always needs to know more. “Is the call about your father?”

I gave her “the look,” which should have stopped her, but didn’t. Her eyes lit up. “A man? Somebody I’ve met?”

I pointed to my office window, more like a porthole, where I could just see a Frisbee sailing back and forth in front of the communal laundry room. “The party’s going to fade unless you get out there. You’re the only one who can convince them to eat too much.”