Before I can even attempt another very unconvincing denial, his hand moves, his index finger tracking to the first line of the program, second word: Marriage. The tip of his finger rests right above the M, the letter over which I drew the first fairy—she’s facing left, the very tip of one of her slim, delicate feet touching down on the second shoulder of the letter, her veiny wings—I’d used the finest tip for those—still fully extended as she descends. I’d made her blond, same as Avery, though she’s tiny enough that nothing about her simple facial features suggests a resemblance.

His finger moves again. Second line, where their names were side by side, joined by a viney ampersand I’d been particularly proud of. Reid, that’s where his finger pauses, and he taps over the i, which I’d dotted with a delicate, golden drop of the love potion from Act Two, a mischievous-looking Puck drawn above, his hand still extended, as if he’s only just finished the job.

Third line, where I made something of the first S in Four Seasons, the lower curve turned into a leafy hammock, a sleeping Titania’s long, wavy hair draped over the terminal curve.

M-I-S . . .

He keeps tapping. The t in Wedding Party, another blushing, smiling fairy hanging by one hand on the cross-stroke. The capital A in Andrew, the name of the violinist, a raised-eyebrow fairy tucked into the triangular counter, a tiny, slim finger raised to her smirking mouth, good-humoredly reminding everyone to be quiet. The k in Thank you, a confident Oberon leaning against the high ascender. The e in special day, Bottom’s ass’s head peeking from the eye, one of his long ears slightly bent. It’s all spread out, over the course of a lot of letters, but still . . . still, it’s there.

“There’s other drawings,” I say. I’m still too afraid to touch the thing, but I nod my head toward the flowered arch over the first line. There’s additional sketches, too, worked in throughout, some of them even on or inside the letters themselves. The flowers and vines, the—

“Not like these,” he says, and he traces his finger up, working backward over the hidden word now, until he taps again at the M. “Not fair—” He stumbles over the f there, the furrow in his brow almost a trench at this point. I don’t imagine he’s had much occasion in his life to talk about fairies, I guess other than his first date with his ex-wife. He clears his throat. “Not—characters. This is a pattern.”

“It’s random. A coincidence.”