She’s in there, I remember thinking, a wave of anticipation dousing my heart. But despite my anxiety, I felt grounded and eager. I believed I was where I was supposed to be. And I kept reminding myself of something Cal had said in Montana: I’d already lost what I was afraid of losing. There was nothing at stake here.

Not surprisingly, the structure was a work of art too. A 10 x 10 roofless form made of asymmetrical bronze frames, edging thick pieces of glass with just the slightest tint, as if the glassmaker had blown a thin stream of rose-colored smoke into them before they set. There was an open doorframe at the front of the glass house and one on the opposite side in the back. Each had a security guard standing by.

But the most visually compelling feature of the structure was the glass itself. All the panes looked like someone had taken a chisel to them, causing artfully crafted cracks to extend out from random points. I could barely see beyond the fractures, but even through the landscape of a thousand jagged lines, I recognized the figure of the woman seated at the table inside.

At exactly 10:00 a.m. the first person in line, a young African-American girl wearing a lot of colorful necklaces and a big backpack, was ushered up to the glass house and invited to enter.

One of the security guards took the pack from the girl before she went in. And as I advanced a few feet, I could make out October’s hands on the table. I saw the girl sit down and set her hands directly on top of October’s. It was impossible for me to know if the girl spoke or not. Five minutes later she walked out wiping her eyes and smiling.

Upon entering the museum, I took out my earbuds and put away my phone.

The Roberts Family Gallery was a huge space, and the glass house was in the center of it. At the back of the room, a wide, stunning maple staircase led to the main lobby of the museum, and also provided bleacher-like seating for visitors who wished to sit and observe what was going on in the gallery below.

After Yanmei and I both made it through the metal detector and were standing inside the building, she turned around and gave me a sweet, gawky, double thumbs-up. I was about to give her at least one proper thumbs-up in return, but a familiar voice coming from the staircase froze my heart.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, the tone like bullets being shot in my direction.

I looked up and saw Rae racing down the steps, dwarfed in a long black blazer over a black oblong skirt and heavy black boots. She was heading right for me, seething. There were no snacks in her hand, and her hair was back to what I guessed was its natural color, black and shiny like wet tar. She had a museum staff nametag clipped to her lapel.