The screen fills with a busy sidewalk, and I swear my heart falls out of rhythm as I watch the world through Foster’s eyes. He’s maneuvering around people, heading toward the Charles Bridge—then to the museum where I sent him.

I rush down the steps. He’s not far, so I bypass the hotel employees and the waiting taxis at the curb. My eyes constantly flick to my phone, watching Foster cross the historic bridge. He flashes me the view, showing me what he’s already shown me.

Every step he takes after the bridge, I know. He’s taken me there before, and a few minutes later, I’m walking the same path. I spin around, my blood on fire when I recognize this part of the city, even though my feet have never touched the ground until now. There’s no screen between me and the air or the sun shining down through breaks in the clouds.

Then I stop, staring down at the screen. Foster’s walking into the museum, and when I look up, I see the burnt orange tiles in the distance. By the time I reach the doors, he’s wandering a long hall, works of art on either side. I’m paying for entry when he pauses, pointing the camera at one of the paintings.

A little girl sits on her father’s lap, playing with a porcelain doll. The girl’s hair is long and red, the doll’s dark and curly. The oils swirl, the colors mixing and fading from one to another to create their features and dresses and precious faces.

I hesitate, my body not quite my own while it occupies the space he was just in.

We’re sharing the air.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning back to the woman at the entrance. “Could you tell me where this painting is located?”

Her gaze lowers to my phone when I hold it out. Then she gives me a soft smile and shows me a map of the museum, pointing to a hall not far from the entrance. I thank her before making my way there. I stop in front of the girl and her doll, the colors less subdued than the screen would lead you to believe.

“You’re not really seeing the art,” Foster told me once. “Not until you’re standing in front of it have you truly seen anything.”

He’s moved on to an open room, streaks of light visible from large windows set high above. I wander farther down the hall until it widens into the same room. The same light wood on the floor and the same white on the walls with black beams vaulting in the ceiling.