Quentin listened to the hum of the air conditioner and the whoosh of a passing truck. Just outside the shaded window, a bird shrieked—a blue jay, Quentin thought, or some other similar species put on this earth to destroy radio broadcasts. He was glad Summer had talked him into the cardioid mic—it was so much better at cutting out background noise than the omnidirectional he’d planned on taking. You’d be surprised at how many distracting sounds there are in a typical living room, Summer had said. And she’d been right. Of course, if Summer had seen this place, she’d never have called it typical.

Reg’s living room was a time capsule, from the faded plaid earth-toned couch, to the Formica coffee table, to the avocado-green ashtray and matching coasters that looked as though they hadn’t been unstacked since the premiere of the very first Star Wars movie. There was a coffee-table book of photography—The Best of Life Magazine—and a few dusty TV Guides, one of which had Fonzie on the cover. It was as though Reg Sharkey had attempted to stop the clock on June 19, 1976, before his family had crumbled into a billion pieces.

Quentin took in the line of photographs on the mantelpiece—almost all of them of Clara and Kimmy, holiday photos and vacation shots, birthday party pictures, mother and daughter, smiling and young, forever hopeful, just we two . . . Quentin’s jaw tensed, a tiny, bitter seed taking root at the pit of his stomach.

He took a deep breath, willing the tension out of his body as he’d learned in the holistic yoga class his husband, Dean, had forced him to take. In with the positive energy, out with the negative . . . God, Dean could be so Californian sometimes, but it was better than nothing. Worse than downing a globe-size martini, or putting one’s fist through drywall. But better than nothing.

“They’re all I have,” said Reg. “Those pictures you’re looking at. They’re the only family I have left.”

“Well . . .” said Quentin.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.” Quentin struggled to keep his tone neutral. “I know what you mean.” But the truth was still right here with them, hanging in the stale air and coursing through Quentin’s tensed muscles, showing itself in his narrow face and his slight overbite and the thick black lashes that used to get him teased when he was a kid. No matter what Reg Sharkey thought he meant, the truth was with them. It had nowhere else to go.

Reg and Clara had another daughter, a girl ten years older than Kimmy. At the edge of the mantel stood the evidence, a faded professional photo of the Sharkey family: Kimmy as a baby in Clara’s arms, posed between Reg and that older daughter, Kate.