The sight of this bald, small man with his bushy mustache, his shirt and bow tie and starched overalls, brought back a memory to Joel like a knife through the chest. Ten years ago, Joel had been inside that store, hiding inside a pair of headphones in the wake of his arrest, sent by his mother to buy something his house didn’t need—paint thinner? a torpedo level?—in the hopes of getting him out of bed. At the counter, Mr. Lott had made no effort to ring up his purchase. Lott had motioned for Joel to take the headphones off, which he did, reluctantly. Braced for some fresh humiliation, Joel had instead heard the first kind words an adult had spoken to him since those photos had appeared in everyone’s paper the week before.

As Joel stepped inside the store today, the bell chimed brightly, as if even it too was grateful to see him again.

“Dear God, Joel,” Mr. Lott said, embracing him. “Am I ever sorry.”

Déjà vu. He had said exactly the same thing to Joel ten years ago.

Joel composed himself enough to say, “I’m glad this place still exists. I heard they opened a Walmart down the highway.”

Lott waved this off. “Forget the Walmart. Joel Whitley, how the hell are you walking?”

“I’m not entirely certain.” Joel glanced around at the empty shop. “I don’t want to keep you—is your daughter here?”

“Kimbra? She mentioned you were looking for me Sunday. She’s probably at the Egg House with a few of the girls. I try not to make her work on the weeknights. God knows we hardly have the business.”

Lott’s eyes seemed to follow Joel’s around the shop, taking in with him the faded deals, the ersatz stack of wheelbarrow tires and, on almost every vertical surface, Bentley Bison merchandise. There were pennants, commemorative calendars dating back decades, framed jerseys of yesterday’s golden boys: BROADLOCK, STEELE, CLARK.

TOBIAS LOTT, BOOSTER CLUB CHAIR, read a nameplate mounted on the store’s wooden counter. A pristine replica of the State Semifinals trophy from the year before sat next to the paint-speckled cash register.

Joel spotted a picture of his beaming brother mounted next to an official portrait of the president. The president’s photo was smaller.

“It’s nice to see you haven’t changed,” Joel said.

Lott tried to smile. “Should I be concerned about your designs on my daughter?”

“It’s her boyfriend I’m worried about,” Joel said, and Mr. Lott’s face darkened. “Has KT ever made any trouble for Kimbra?”

“There’s always going to be someone else you’d wish would take a shine to your little girl.”

Joel noticed something odd on the wall. “Did they not have a team picture in ’75?”

Lott seemed happy to change the subject. “That’s the only one I’m missing. Nobody held on to it. I have a few with your brother, though. They’re yours if you want them.”

Joel demurred. He turned to go, hesitated and looked back at Mr. Lott to say, “Do you remember what you told me that afternoon? The week after everything happened?”