Bess didn’t call me morbid or self-centered for turning her story into mine. She called me a wonderful friend. Then, zero judgment, she let me change the subject. We talked about her job prospects and how I plan to spend my days before school starts again, and everything was normal—so normal, in fact, that I rode the feeling all the way home, straight into the house, straight up to my closet, where I took the shoebox down from the highest shelf like it was the most unremarkable thing to do. Despite the late-summer heat, despite not having done this in a decade, I stuffed my feet into socks and slipped my socked feet into harness boots supercharged with Shae’s love and strength. I didn’t rationalize or reflect—even as I removed a cotton-wrapped bundle from the bottom of the box, put the lid back on the box, put the box back on the shelf, carried the bundle downstairs, pulled a faded paperback from my office shelf, marched to the kitchen, and left Robert a note: Heading into the city for the day. Will catch the 5:51 back. There’s spaghetti pie in the freezer. xo E. Without overthinking my feet or their direction, I just walked, feeling Shae stir with every step: love and strength holding me against the world. Now I’m halfway to a ritual I thought I’d put to rest—armed with a pair of time machines, no less.

I reach into my bag and choose the faded paperback first, flipping it open to a dog-eared page, skimming highlighted passages and trying to remember why they once moved me, but my eyes drift to the backs of my hands marked with sunspots I call freckles. I should be more diligent about SPF. I should be more disciplined about cleaning my diamond. Once upon a time, I cleaned a ring routinely. Now I rarely take one off.