“Since when do you eat peanut butter?” Pete asked as he rang up Cary’s items. “I thought you were allergic.”

“I am,” Cary said. “They’re not for me.” I looked down at the items on the counter and realized—probably much too late—that in addition to Cary’s grape soda and Skittles, all the items he was buying were the ones I’d put back. The Doritos, the Diet Dr Pepper, the M&Ms, the gum. It was such a small, sweet gesture that it took me fully by surprise. And I realized, with a pit in my stomach, that it was the kind of thing that Stevie would have done. She was always buying me snacks and not letting me pay her back. This had culminated in the Great Venmo War of last year. It had led to us both being banned for a month; I’d worn it like a badge of honor.

“Thank you,” I said, as Pete scanned the rest. “But you didn’t have to—”

“It’s my pleasure,” Cary said simply. “Consider it repayment for my uncle going missing.”

“Uncle Georgios is missing?” Pete asked, his jaw falling open. “Since when?”

“Not like missing missing,” Cary said quickly. “Just having car trouble in the Keystone State. Not the best day for it, since Kat got locked out and needed to be let into an apartment.”

“Got it,” Pete said, looking relieved. “Bag for ten cents?”

Cary nodded, and Pete swept the items into a white plastic bag with I NY printed on it in red, over and over again. He handed it to Cary, along with his change, and picked up his highlighter.

“You around later?” he asked.

Cary shook his head. “Working.”

“Sunday then,” Pete said.

Cary grinned. “See you on the field.” Pete gave us a nod before going back to his book, and it was like you could somehow feel that even though he was still physically here, he had actually left and was elsewhere, probably in Austria or Switzerland or wherever Wittgenstein was from.

“Field?” I asked, following Cary as he made his way toward the door. He paused to scratch the head of the orange cat who was lounging in the window. I figured this must be a bodega cat—I’d heard about them, of course, but had never seen one in real life. My parents weren’t really ones for ducking into delis when we were in the city to see a play. I reached for my phone to take a picture, already debating the caption—meowdega!—before I remembered. I settled for also scratching the top of the cat’s head and was rewarded when it gave a low purr that seemed to rumble through its body.

“Yeah,” Cary said as he held open the door for me and I stepped outside, drawing in a breath against the cold air. “We play kickball on Sundays, then get brunch.”