“The clocks. All the furniture. Those books. The map of the world. Dulcie loved to travel.” He looked at the map and at us, and he wiped his watery eyes, pale as marble. “But after she left, I never could.”

Novo put his hand on me, and I looked down, and I held it in both of mine, his skin its own map, his body another country.

Henry got up and walked to the window. The sun shone almost straight through him, like he was made of paper, or something thinner than flesh. He took a long, deep breath, and he was shaking a little.

“Are you okay?” I said.

He bowed his head, under the weight of it, and the pulse in my veins got bass heavy, and my heart felt huge in my chest. “The next part has been hard.”

“Stop now,” Novo said. “Take a rest. You’re exhausted.”

Henry looked at him, and I knew there was something else they weren’t saying then, to me.

“What is it, Henry?” I said.

“Nothing compares,” he said. “Nowhere near. Never will.”

“Compares to what?” I said, and Henry didn’t speak for a minute. He held one more piece of fish out for the birds and then he wiped his hand on a rag and went over to the chair where Charlie Parker was still perched. He stroked the bird’s tired feathers with one gentle finger, took off his glasses, and brought it up to his face for a closer look, his pale eyes flat with sadness, his frown a deep dark line.

“To this,” Novo told me, taking my hand, bringing my knuckles to his cheek, holding it there. “Nothing compares to us.”

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