When he would later lecture my college-girl self, my father would point out that, for the men and women who worked beside me on the line of vats and molds at the paper factory, this was their life, but for me it was only my start. On the other end of that scale were the Hodges, his best friends, and we were not the same as them, either. If I envied the Hodges too often or too openly, it made my father stern. In any event, while I never listened to my father’s litanies as devoutly as he wanted me to—what girl does?—I did grow up with the awareness of being both things: I was a full college professor now, but I was still the teen who worked at the paper factory whose parents had paid a teacher to teach Greek to us and our cousins from kindergarten through high school so that we might never forget who we were.

Now I look at that photo of me and Alzy and reflect on how the destinies of those two little girls are intertwined in a way I never could have imagined. Alzy’s life, and perhaps especially her death, would be a major turn in the road for me and for Stefan, but it would be months before I would discover exactly how.

What I learned at the end of my first week back at work after the holiday break was how rough at least some of that road would be. Keith Fu, my department chair, dropped by my office. He brought me a latte. I’d just found a fortune cookie in my pocket and I showed it to Keith. It said, I cannot help you. I am only a cookie.

He said, “No wonder people think the Chinese are inscrutable.”

“Stefan used to say ‘inscrewable.’”

“That, too,” said Keith, and laughed, albeit weakly. “My name in Chinese means master teacher.”

“I never knew that was what ‘Keith’ meant,” I said.

Keith attempted another laugh. “How is Stefan? How are you?”

“I have no idea how I am. I just feel so guilty because I have this other world, my respite, and he has nothing.” I sipped my coffee. It was foamy and cinnamon-y. “Thanks for this.”