Diego ran up ahead, zooming in circles around a big tree until we reached him. I knew that tree too. Bob and I had named it together. He’d claimed it was the tallest coast live oak on that part of the trail, and we’d called it Beanstalk, then, later, Bean for short.

After the quick sprint the dog calmed down, ambled back over to us, and walked beside me, as if he thought it was his job to usher us up the trail.

We walked for maybe a quarter of a mile in silence. Finally October said, “Did Rae warn you not to talk too much, or are you just generally quiet?”

“Both.”

She chuckled. “Don’t let Rae scare you. She the oldest of five kids. Thinks she has to mother everyone. Including me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that except “OK.”

We were quiet again. Then October said, “Come on. Tell me about yourself. Besides your birthday, since I already know that.”

I made it a point not to tell people the pitiful details of my life, and I didn’t think I’d be working there longer than the project would last, so making shit up didn’t seem to matter. When I’d moved to Berkeley as a college freshman, I’d gotten into the asinine habit of telling people the tale of Bob’s childhood as my own, and I’d been doing it ever since.

“I grew up in Spokane. Moved here to go to Berkeley. How about you? Where are you from?”

“Rochester. New York, not Minnesota.”

That surprised me. She seemed too interesting to be from Rochester. “Did you study art there?”

She shook her head. “RISD.”

“How did you end up out here?”

“Got recruited to do graphic design for a tech company in the city.”

“Which one?”

“Ribble.”

“Wow. What did you do for them?”

She looked down and kicked at some rocks. “You know the little logo cartoons on the search engine homepage?”

“The Ribble scribbles?”

She squinted up her face and gave me a quick nod.

“You used to make those?”

She stopped walking, turned her head slightly in my direction, gave me a sharp side-eye, and whispered, “I still make those.”

“Really?” I was genuinely impressed. “That’s cool.”

She nudged me playfully with her elbow, and I remember thinking the gesture felt weirdly intimate, like something you’d do with an old friend, not a virtual stranger.

“It is not cool. It’s mortifyingly corporate. But it pays the bills, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded. I’d heard even the interns made six figures at Ribble. “I liked the one you did for Bob Dylan’s birthday last year, the one where his face was a cake, with the animated harmonica.”

She halted, wide-eyed. “You remember that?”

“Yeah. And the April Fool’s Day one with the spinning kangaroo. That was great.”

She threw her head back and laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.

“What?” I mumbled.

She nudged me again, this time a playful push with her palm. “That wasn’t a kangaroo! It was Diego!”