As she left, he returned his attention to the door, and right then, a man came out, dressed in a heavy winter parka. He held on to the railing, moving a bit stiffly. He was tall and held a briefcase in one hand. His hair was salt-and-pepper gray. He looked like George Clooney.

The man waved to a student, then took a left and started walking west.

Josh got up, grabbed his leather bag and jogged up behind him. “Professor Zane?” he said, his voice calm. He felt calm, too. He felt . . . nothing, really. A distant curiosity.

“Yes?” His father turned. Up close, he looked older than his pictures, shadows under his eyes, the skin on his face starting its downward journey into laxity. Still handsome, though.

“Joshua Park.” He didn’t put out his hand.

“Do I know you? Are you a student or alumnus?”

“No.” He paused. “I’m your son.”

That expression . . . the blood drained out of his face. Joshua watched as it happened. Christopher M. Zane’s face turned utterly gray. His eyes widened, and he bent over, hands on his knees. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

Josh didn’t offer to help him. He waited, and after a few seconds, his father stood up, breathing heavily. He took a step backward, his breath fogging the air. His eyes were wet, Josh observed, and he was unsteady on his feet.

Which meant nothing, of course.

“Hey, Dr. Zane! You okay?” called a student.

“Yeah. Yep, fine, thanks. Thanks.” He shook his head a little, took a few deep breaths, then looked at Josh’s face. “My God,” he said, and his tears overflowed. “My God.”

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” Josh asked. “Or do you need an ambulance?”

“No, I’m fine . . . just . . . my God. I never thought . . . I never expected to . . .”

“Is there a café or a restaurant nearby?” There was. Cookie had researched it and sent him four places. She didn’t know the reason for his visit, and she’d kill herself before asking.

“Yes. Um, this way.”

They didn’t speak, though a few times, someone said, “Hey, Professor,” or “Hi, Dr. Zane!” Joshua’s father didn’t acknowledge their greetings. Maybe he didn’t even hear them. The cold air put some color back into his face, and he kept glancing at Josh, who returned his looks calmly. He waited for feelings to come. They didn’t. They probably would, he imagined. Just not yet.

On the next block was an Irish pub. Christopher Zane opened the door and held it for Josh. Inside was dark and warm.

“Chris! How you doin’?” called the bartender.

“I’m good, Tim, I’m good.” So he was a regular here. No introduction for Josh. “Hey, we’re gonna take a booth in the back, okay?” He turned to Josh. “What would you like to drink?”

“Coffee.”