It’d been the first day in almost a month that he’d been able to sleep in. He’d taken ZzzQuil to make the most of it. But Noah had stomped around the bedroom getting dressed—loud enough that their downstairs neighbor should have complained. Noah was going to the Greenmarket in Union Square. Noah was still upset from the night before when Larkin said no to a morning outing. He was running on fumes, needed to sleep, the market didn’t close until six in the evening so where was the rush? Of course he wanted to spend the day with his husband, but he was so exhausted that his skin hurt and he needed to sleep. Larkin could see Noah sitting on the side of the bed, tying his shoes, then storming out of the bedroom. The front door crashed shut thirty seconds later.

Larkin opened his eyes. “Red Nikes.”

Walsh looked excited again. “That’s incredible.”

“Not really,” Larkin said dully.

“There’s only about sixty confirmed cases, worldwide, of Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. And of those sixty, the studies you’ve been a part of, Mr. Larkin, show that you’re in the top percentile. I hesitate to use the word, but your ability to recall details is extraordinary. You don’t think that’s a gift?”

“My short-term memory is terrible,” Larkin answered. “I miss appointments without reminders because I’m just… unable to recall a plan on its own that exists outside a strict routine. I misplaced my wedding ring today. Forgot about it entirely. Gun to my head, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you where I’d put it because I was so immersed in a past event that I was running on autopilot in the here and now. It’s not a gift when my husband confronts me about the missing ring. It’s not a gift that I can’t control intrusive memories because a date, a time, a voice, a crack of thunder is an association and now the past has to play itself out in full like a film projector with no controls. It’s not a gift that I’ve developed obsessive-compulsive traits as a method of coping. It’s not a gift that I can barely hold a regular conversation, because I’m too busy automatically cataloging every mundane and minute detail, and that if I focus—really focus on the other person—there’s a constant fear that the conversation will take a negative turn and I’ll have invested energy into something I now can’t forget, a pain that doesn’t diminish with time.” Larkin wiped his cheeks and took a wet breath. “None of that is a gift.”