I took Shana through Boston Common to the Public Garden, which was beautiful even this late in the fall. Like in the clothing store, she couldn’t stop touching. The bark of a particularly majestic tree. The dangling fronds of a naked weeping willow. The prickly sticks on a border hedge. We stood on the bridge, watching tourists snap photos of the lake that in the spring would host the swan boats. Then we walked up Newbury Street, where Shana gawked at the store windows with their designer clothes and overpriced wares.

Her fingers were still flexing and unflexing at her sides, but she never slowed down, even as numerous pedestrians crashed against her, and at one point, she nearly became entangled in a dog leash. Her eyes remained fierce, drinking it all in. She reminded me of a hawk, not quite ready to take flight but already remembering the promise of open skies.

We roamed. Over to the Prudential Center, then, using the pedestrian bridge, into Copley Center. We went nowhere. We went everywhere.

And sometimes people stared at me, and sometimes people stared at her. But in the rush-hour frenzy no one looked too hard or for too long. My sister had been right in her instinct to get lost in the crowd. It was easier to hide in plain sight.

Shana told me stories of lousy prison food, guards who were actually nice, the joys of living with zero privacy and even less water pressure. But mostly she asked questions. About streetlights and fashion trends and what was with all the tiny cars that looked like you could fit them in a purse and who taught any of these people to drive anyway? She wanted to touch buildings. She wanted to stare at everything. She wanted to devour an entire city in thirty minutes or less.

My sister. The two of us, finally together again.

Six P.M. Air colder, sidewalks thinning slightly.

More pizza, my sister decided. This time, I ordered an entire pie, then a six-pack of beer. I carried the beer, Shana carted the pizza box, as I finally waved down a taxi, gave him the address for my building.

We didn’t speak in the taxi. We didn’t speak as we unloaded from the cab in front of my high-rise. Shana looked up, up, up, but she didn’t say a word.

I saw a police cruiser parked on the corner, but no lights flashed on, no door popped open at the sight of me and a male colleague, clearly armed with dinner, heading into the building.

Maybe the cop thought I was smart to have a guy stay over for the night.

Who knows?

Mr. Daniels greeted us inside. He took one look at my red-scarred face, blanched and nearly stuttered.

I’d had a visitor, just an hour before.

“A Mr. Sgarzi. Charlie Sgarzi,” Mr. Daniels provided anxiously.