Myron clicked on the Mickey folder and the thumbs—small iconlike photos—loaded up. For a moment he just stared, his hand on the mouse. Esperanza kept still. Then, almost mechanically, Myron started clicking through the photographs of the boy, starting when Mickey was a newborn infant and ending sometime recently, when the boy was probably about fifteen. Esperanza bent for a closer look, watching the images whir by, when under her breath she whispered, “My God.”

Myron said nothing.

“Go back,” she said.

“Which one?”

“You know which one.”

He did. He went back to the photograph of Mickey playing basketball. There were a lot of him playing hoops—in Kenya, Serbia, Israel—but in this particular picture, Mickey was taking a fadeaway jumper. His wrist was cocked, the ball near his forehead. His taller opponent was reaching to block it, but he never would. Mickey had hops, yes, but he also had the fadeaway, drifting back to safety from that outstretched hand. Myron could almost see the gentle release, the way the ball would rise with perfect backspin.

“May I state the obvious?” Esperanza asked.

“Go for it.”

“That’s your move. This could be a picture of you.”

Myron did not reply.

“Except, well, you had that ridiculous perm back then.”

“It wasn’t a perm.”

“Sure, right, the natural curls that left when you were twenty-two.”

Silence.

“How old would he be now?” Esperanza asked.

“Fifteen.”

“He looks taller than you.”

“Could be.”

“No question he’s a Bolitar. He’s got your build, but he’s got your dad’s eyes. I like your dad’s eyes. They’re soulful.”

Myron said nothing. He just stared at the photographs of the nephew he’d never met. He tried to sort through the emotions ricocheting through him and then decided to just let them be.

“So,” Esperanza said, “what’s our next step?”

“We find them.”

“Why?”

Myron figured the question was rhetorical or maybe he didn’t have a good answer. Either way he let it be. After Esperanza left, Myron went through the photographs of Mickey again, slower this time. When he finished, he clicked the message button. Kitty’s profile picture appeared. He typed a message to her, deleted it, typed it again. The wording was wrong. Always. The message was also too long, too much explanation, too much rationalization and couching, and too many “on the other hands.” So finally he gave it one last try with three words:

Please forgive me.

He looked at it, shook his head, and then, before he could change his mind, he hit the send button.

Win never showed. He used to keep his office upstairs, corner of the trading floor of Lock-Horne Securities, but when Myron was indisposed for a significant period of time, he moved down to MB Reps (literally and figuratively) so as to shore up Esperanza and assure the clients that they were still in good hands.

It was not unusual for Win not to come in or be in contact. Win disappeared a fair amount—not much recently, but whenever he did, it was usually not good. Myron was tempted to call him, but as Esperanza had pointed out earlier, he was not either of their mothers.