I stare at Gus. He could probably take a chair to the head like it was a throw pillow. Except for a hint of sadness in his eyes, he looks about as comforting as a stone floor. He barely knows me. And yet his simple words thaw something in my chest. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, or stress, or just the way Gus stands there looking earnest and slightly uncomfortable, but I step forward and put my arms around his very large body and lean my head against his chest in a hug. He goes very still, then awkwardly pats me on the back. It feels like being gently pawed by a gorilla. After a moment I let go and step back and smile at him. He returns the smile. Then I head upstairs to my uncle’s office.

At the top of the stairs, off a short hallway with a faded carpet runner, is the door to the office. It’s closed, and I put my hand on the doorknob. Ethan and I never hung out in the office with our uncle. It was his workplace, off limits except by invitation, and those didn’t come often.

I turn the knob and open the door. Inside, the office looks like it has always looked: a wall of bookshelves to the right, Oriental rug on the floor, a couple of upholstered chairs, and to the left a mammoth, claw-footed desk that even Gus would have trouble moving. The desk is littered with newspapers, file folders, loose sheets of paper, yellow legal pads, a tablet with a blank screen, a couple of ring-binder notebooks, and a mug half-filled with a brown liquid that is probably tea.

The first time I saw my uncle’s desk, I was eleven, and I made fun of how messy it was. Uncle Gavin responded by telling me a story about Albert Einstein, whose own desk was famously messy. According to Uncle Gavin, someone once asked the famous scientist if a cluttered desk was a sign of a cluttered mind. Einstein replied by saying if that were true, then what was an empty desk a sign of? I learned later that quote was probably fictitious, and part of me wanted to say so to Uncle Gavin, but I realized it wouldn’t matter. The facts might be wrong, but the point of the story itself, that the state of one’s desk doesn’t reflect his or her intelligence, was true. And I understood, even then, how important the stories we tell ourselves are, even when they aren’t completely accurate.

Behind the desk is my uncle’s chair, dark blue leather with wooden armrests. It always creaks when he sits in it. Seeing his empty chair is worse than seeing his empty parking space. I walk around the desk and lower myself into the chair. It tilts back beneath me. Creak.