Part of him is afraid to go inside Preston’s house, afraid he will be disappointed that none of the things he hopes to see will still be there: the nicks and cracks and clues that give proof of that long-ago life. The front yard is no longer neat and manicured, as it is in the photo with his mother. It was probably taken before his graduation or maybe a dance, because he’s in a suit, his mother smiling.

In the root cellar, he had a stash of old pennies, flattened by the train, and marbles and matchbooks, and a coin his stepfather gave him from when he was in France in the war—the kinds of things Frank has spent a lifetime encouraging students to talk about, the objects that they hid or that defined them, the tokens that they felt brought good luck or protection from evil: an Eye of Horus, an ankh, a cross, a star, Saint Christopher medallions, four-leaf clovers, a mezuzah on the doorframe, a witch ball in the window.

On December 15, 1943, Frank was safely housed in his childhood home in Lowell, Massachusetts—632 Andover Street. He was ten years old and had spent the day, and night before, anticipating his parents’ return. The window shade in his room had a bone ring he would hook his finger in and raise, once the room was dark and his eyes had adjusted, to look out over the neighborhood. His grandmother was there with him; she had stayed often after the death of his grandfather, and they were both looking forward to the next day, when his parents would pull into the station.

When darkness fell that late afternoon, his parents were already beginning their journey home, and he felt jealous of the trip that had not included him. His father had volunteered his skills and was working at a base in Miami Beach; he was coming home for the holidays and hoped he would not need to return. In every letter he wrote, he had mentioned how he felt both lucky and guilty to have not had to leave the country.