One place to start, he supposed, would be taking that photograph out and staring down at it until he could be assured he wouldn’t overreact again. But the fact that the book was still there at all, he supposed, was progress of a sort—years ago, months ago, weeks ago, even, he probably would’ve gotten rid of it, would’ve put the photograph into the same box where he kept all pictures from his childhood, small and shoved into the back of his closet.

That was Nora’s influence, he thought—maybe she held on to things too hard, but she did love an artifact, more like her parents than maybe she realized. Over at her place, she had an origin story for everything, and mentioning them brought a certain smile to her face, always. The teapot that had been an anniversary gift from her grandfather to her grandmother. The painted tile that Nora’s mother had made in third grade. The lamp that he’d seen her giving away last week, apparently from Italy.

So even though he didn’t much want to look at the book or the photograph yet, it comforted him, somehow, to know he’d held on to them; it gave him hope he could fix this with Nora. Still, for the first time in his life he thought it might be nice to have the kind of artifact lying around that might make him feel like she did—comforted and closer to someone she’d lost.

A thought hit him, and he set down his glass so quickly that water splashed over the back of his hand. He shook it off, wiped it on his shorts, and moved down his galley to the drawer where he always shoved extra pens or rubber bands or those garbage bag ties he never ended up using anyway. He yanked it open, heart hiccupping, and there it was, exactly what he was looking for: a scroll of paper, a number written lightly at the top.

He smiled down at it, the memory like a balm: in his mind was a long green dress, the line of Nora’s shoulders, her long braid and her flower crown, the look she’d given him when she’d handed this scroll over to him, mischief in her eyes.

He felt a smile spread over his face.

He took it with him to his bedroom, for the first time in days not dreading the thought of lying down without her. He propped his pillow up against the wall (something to be said for his furniture-arranging) and sat back, tapping the scroll against his palm and thinking about that night—not only Nora, but also Mrs. Salas and her Solo cup, Mr. Salas’s food and Benny’s beer, Jonah calling him “Beanpole” and Marian and Emily sitting in the front row, their hands joined together. He thought about himself at that microphone, determined to win over the crowd.