Nora was gripped with concern, with embarrassment, with—and this one, she was ashamed of—curiosity. But she would not look down at that picture. She kept her eyes on Will, and she knew he wasn’t looking at it, either, no matter that he had his head tipped in that direction. He’d unfocused his gaze; he was looking somewhere close to but beyond that photograph.

“Did they meet that young, Dr. Sterling?” asked Mrs. Salas, her voice infused with all the curiosity Nora would not allow herself to have.

Will cleared his throat. “First year of high school, I think.”

“Jonah!” said Benny, slapping the older man’s shoulder. “When did you meet your girl?”

Jonah set his hands on his hips again, tipping his head up to the sky in contemplation. “First year of high school seems early, but maybe . . .”

Nora breathed a small sigh of relief at the distraction, hoping they could fully move on to Jonah reigniting a flame with a fellow eighty-year-old.

But it didn’t last.

“My goodness, they look so in love,” Mrs. Salas said, and for a split second, Nora’s guard and her eyes dropped, a brief glance at the photograph that showed two young people—baby faces indeed, with their arms around each other, their gazes locked. She snapped her eyes back up, and found Will watching her.

“Do you mind if I take that?” Nora said, reaching out a hand, her patience for this suddenly run completely out. She needed to get him out of this situation, and fast. Every second, she could feel him wilting beneath the heat of it. But either Mrs. Salas hadn’t heard her, or she was too preoccupied by everyone else’s gathered assessment of the photo.

“You ought to bring them by sometime,” Marian said. “I certainly always thought Donny didn’t have any—”

“He didn’t,” interrupted Will, the first overt sign that his control was slipping. Once more, he cleared his throat, the sound weaker this time. When he spoke again, Nora could tell he was making an effort to deliver this piece of news with kindness. “What I mean is, my parents aren’t living.”

What happened next was something Nora had of course heard before in her life—a collective condolence sound, a tiny, off-key chorus of gentle awws and oohs and hmms. Nora had sung this song before, whenever she’d been in polite company and heard something heartbreakingly final but also wholly separate from herself. But it never sounded so wrenchingly hollow before this moment, no matter that she knew her neighbors truly meant it.

“It’s a beautiful photo,” said Mrs. Salas gently, holding it out to Will. “You should frame this, put it up somewhere where you can see it.”

“They’re not the kind of people you’d want a memorial to.”