I motion for him to come onstage then watch his progress. He’s early thirties, attractive in a boyish, intellectual way, wears a blue flannel shirt, not tucked in, over a white T-shirt, worn jeans, a sport watch, and brown leather boots. A professional of some sort in weekend wear. There’s a gold wedding band on his left ring finger, round, tortoiseshell glasses with a mild-enough prescription that it doesn’t distort his eyes. A small scar above his right brow looks old, probably from an accident when he was a kid, topped by a mop of dark blond hair that needs a cut. He trips on the last step to the stage—they’re always nervous—then pockets his glasses, so they’re probably for distance. There are violet crescents beneath his eyes and his posture is curved, slightly defeated. As he draws close, the need for closure rolls toward me in spiky waves.

This is the part of the show where I’m hyperaware. It was a good show, but there were a few missteps. Kelly and Rose made up for them. But the people I didn’t connect with, who spent their hard-earned money, showed up, maybe for the second, fourth, or eleventh time, optimistic, will only return if they’re left with a sense of trust, for the process, and with me.

“Hi. Um. I’m Theo.”

“Welcome. Please have a seat.”

Theo glances at Moose. “I’m kind of afraid of really big dogs.”

I smile. “That’s because you have a cat.”

“How’d you know?”

I point to the gray hairs caught on the flannel of his shirt. “Siamese?”

“A mix. Her name is Christopher Robin.” The audience laughs. He actually blushes. “We didn’t know she was a girl when we got her.”

“I didn’t know if Moose was a boy or girl when I first spotted him at the shelter,” I confide. “I just knew we were meant for each other. Was it like that with Chris?”

Theo’s brows jerk then quickly smooth. “That’s what I call her. Chris. Yeah. We found her on a camping trip in Joshua Tree. She was in a cardboard box. The other kittens, three of them, had already died.”

“People can be horribly cruel.” Our eyes meet. Theo’s are an arresting blue-green.

For a moment I lose the thread, then pick it up. “Chris is lucky to have you.” Theo sidles around Moose and slides onto his chair.

“Do you have a personal object for me to hold?” He digs into a pocket, pulls out a white-gold engagement ring. The diamond is cushion cut, about 1.5 carats. The gold has no perceptible scratches or dents and the stone was recently cleaned to a brilliant shine. I glance again at Theo’s wedding band. It’s yellow-gold and dull with wear. Usually couples choose identical metals and the wear is similar . . . but not always.

“May I?” Theo hands me the ring. “Your wife’s?” He nods. “She’s passed?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to connect with her?”

“Yes. Please.”

“The letter C, no, it’s a K, is important to you?”