And now Bill’s dead. I can’t help but think about Tate. He left Whittier because he couldn’t bear to live anywhere near his father, was scared of becoming just like him. He never would have; I’d always known that, but Tate hadn’t. He thought leaving was his only choice. I look at the article. Would this change anything? My fingers tap the desk. Of course not. And it wouldn’t matter if it did, because I am a ghost of the person he once knew. I rub my arms against the cold truth. By now, he’s likely built a Whittier-free life somewhere in the lower forty-eight with his wife. My cheeks burn at the thought of him ever knowing me like I am now. I pin the article to a bulletin board I keep beside my desk. I want to remember that Bill Dunn is gone, if only for Tate.

I push “Favorites” on my phone, click on Dad’s name.

“You’ve reached Vance, building manager. Leave a message.”

“Hey, Dad, it’s Claire.” I pause, cradle the phone against my shoulder, scratch the skin on the top of my hand until I’ve left red lines. An uneasiness wriggles in my gut, but I can’t place why or what could be causing it. I glance at the article. “Did you know that Bill Dunn died? I wonder if Tate knows.” The clipping is wrinkled and worn, and when I check the calendar, a burn spreads across my cheeks. He died a year ago. Of course Tate knows, and Dad, and everyone else. Silence from the other end; that’s right, because I’m—I check my notes—leaving a message. There’s a line highlighted and circled with Tell Dad! written beside it. “This bear ran in front of my car today, and it reminded me of the bear you scared out of the lobby when I was seven. Do you remember that?” I smile, the memory rich in detail, comforting in its clarity. “Okay, I’d better go. I love you. Talk soon, Dad.”