“Business may suffer but it doesn’t mean we need to,” he said, holding his grip on me. Hands that held Cal, that I’d held before, but felt different now that I’d held Cal too. “Will you be going to The Studio to see him?”

“I will,” I decided, reminding myself I’d gone there for that very reason and not to be a goof about it.

“The door’s open, as it always is,” he called as I left the room. His statement was confusing. It was as though Abraham believed I frequented the space, when I hadn’t. The only time I’d climbed the narrow, brick-flanked stairwell prior to that day was when Abe had insisted on giving me a tour years before.

The loft was darker than I remembered, the lack of sun on the rainy early spring afternoon having much to do with the dimness. Though it was murkier than my memory recalled, the floor plan was almost entirely open, and the walls were splashed with color, paintings by Abe and others covering nearly every inch. Mattresses were haphazardly placed on the floor, some with men lounging on them, talking to one another, others holding only rumpled blankets.

“Who are you looking for, Pip?” a man dressed as a woman dressed as a man asked as I tried to ascertain precisely what he was.

“Calvin,” I answered, my voice sounding weak though it echoed in the sizable space.

“He’s one of the lucky ones who has a room with a door,” he said, gesturing toward the far corner of the room. “Walk down the hallway, last one on the left.”

I followed my shadow as if I were hesitantly walking the plank, aware of how submerged in the situation I would become once I’d ventured to knock on the door. Standing outside his room, I rested my forehead on the wood and closed my eyes, steeling myself as I attempted to take a tremendous leap of faith. Feet don’t fail me now. I rapped gently on the door, so softly that I didn’t think he would hear, but he did.

“Come in,” Cal called, my body reacting to the sound of him.

Wiping my sweaty palms on my slacks, I turned the doorknob to find Cal lying prone on the bed with his face in a book while Rosie lay supine beside him, sad eyes staring toward the ceiling.

The room was barely bigger than a closet, lit only by a lone lamp and the narrow barred window. Books and papers were piled on every flat surface and, unlike the open areas of The Studio, it was close and musty. It didn’t feel like him, but maybe I had forgotten how he felt. I wanted to remember.