The outer door to our private stairwell was sturdy but rarely locked. There came the scent of burnt tobacco as I crossed the threshold. The threat was clear, but those were my stairs and so I mounted them, three at a time. When I turned at the first half flight I detected an added hint of patchouli oil blending with cigarette smoke. Three more turns and I saw him, perched at the top of the stairs, listening to my approach. He stood only when I came into view.

“Mr. Rawlins?” he asked hopefully.

The young man’s foot-and-a-half-long hair was deep brown against pale white skin. Upon standing he proved to be quite tall. I’d seen his features in two people I’d known, and also, if I wasn’t mistaken, I had met him once a dozen or more years before. His scant facial hair made him look younger, but I put him at about twenty-five.

“Milo, right?” I said.

Surprise registered on the young man’s face. He made a sound that was also a question.

“I met you at your parents’ house in 1956. You answered the door and then called for your mother.”

His eyes tightened as he tried to remember. There was a glimmer of recognition, but the details were lost.

“I came to you to find my sister’s daughter,” he said. “Robin’s little girl.”

By then we were standing toe-to-toe on the platform before the front door of my office. He was half an inch taller but I had the weight advantage. I wanted to fight him but he made no threatening gesture. His tone was respectful.

In the corner he’d leaned a large nylon backpack that had once been bright yellow but by the time it got to my door it was well used, torn, mended, and generously soiled.

“Your mother send you out here?” I asked him.

“No.”

“Then how did you find me?”

“Can we go inside?”

I looked from him to the sad pack and back again before saying, “Sure, but leave the bag out here.”

I took out the key and unlocked the door, pushed it open and gestured for him to walk through.

“Keep going down that middle hall to the end,” I said. “That’s my office.”

Remembering another young white man, I locked the front door and followed in the footsteps of Milo Garnett.

He was standing in the middle of the office awaiting further instructions. The hippie wore blue jeans and a threadbare multicolored, tie-dyed T-shirt. His frame was thin but carried the strength of youth.

“Take any chair,” I said and then went around the desk.

I sat down and Milo was still considering the three chairs as if his future depended on the right choice.

“What’s her name?” he asked, still contemplating.

“Sit.”

He went to the chair at my left.

“What’s my niece’s name?” he asked again.

“Answer my question first.”

“Um, I forget.”