The late-morning sun poured, distilled, through a wrought-iron fence surrounding the yard, illuminating the dark bulk of a man bent over the base of the tree. The other men watched him pull back a layer of moss to expose a root, run his hand across it. The scene contained a sharp, cut-glass quality and this time she understood the preternatural clarity: the honed edges of the leaves, the waves of light seen in flowing air, the punctuated outline of the man’s body—clarity that came with her body’s recognition of Nick.

Nick stood and, as if she’d called his name, turned and looked directly at her. She half-lifted her hand under what felt like an unnatural weight in the air. Nick moved toward her as if she’d crooked her finger and motioned for him. Maybe she had.

He reached the bottom step of the porch and looked up at her; his hair was a thousand different colors in the sun. She walked down three concrete steps to the soft ground to join him. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and walked away from her class. He followed her until they stopped at the iron fence. She turned and stood underneath the shadow of a magnolia tree to face him.

He reached his hand out, brushed the tips of her hair as if touching the outline of a painting, or just the frame; she didn’t move.

“Amy.”

“Hello, Nick.” Her voice was too loud, or maybe too soft.

“How are you?”

She waved toward the tree. “Trying to save . . . that tree?”

“Yeah, the garden has . . .” He looked off to the group of men, then back at her. “Amy, how are you?”

“Oh, Nick, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Busy. A lot of work.”

“I saw . . . you started your own company. Research—” She started to cry and squeezed back the tears.

“Yep, with Revvy.”

She wanted to cry so badly, to reach for him and sob into his flannel shirt. “I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am. Are you still in Garvey?”

“No. I moved out. I’m in Savannah now—a studio apartment overlooking the river. You’d love it.”

She wanted to groan, but didn’t. “Are you okay? You and Eliza?” Her hand fluttered in the air.

He looked away. “No.”

This time she did groan. “My fault. God, I’m so sorry.”

“No.” His hand lifted as if he would touch her; then he dropped it. “Never your fault. It’s all mine. Everything’s mine.”

“If I hadn’t—”

He placed an index finger on her lips. “Shh. No.”

She was dizzy. “Your kids.”