The photograph is from a decade ago. Owen is hugging Bailey after her first school play. Bailey is still in costume and Owen has his arms wrapped proudly around her shoulders. Bailey’s face is mostly obscured by the mess of flowers he gave her—gerbera daisies and carnations and lilies, a bouquet larger than her whole body. Bailey is peeking out from behind the flowers, a big smile on her face. Owen is looking at the camera. Happy. Laughing.

It’s almost too much to look at the photograph, especially when I zoom in on Owen. His eyes bright and lively. Almost like he’s here. Almost like he could be here.

I try to give Bailey a supportive smile as we walk inside and find a graduate student sitting behind a desk in the outer office. She wears black wire-rim glasses and is focused on grading a thick stack of student papers.

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t put her red pen down. But she clears her throat.

“Can I help you?” she says, like it’s the last thing she wants to do.

“We are hoping to speak with Professor Cookman,” I say.

“That much is obvious,” she says. “Why?”

“My father’s an old student of his,” Bailey says.

“He’s teaching,” she says. “Besides, you need an appointment.”

“Of course, but what Bailey here is trying to explain to you is that she too is interested in becoming a student. At UT. Like her father. And Nielon Simonson, over in admissions, suggested that she sit in on Professor Cookman’s class today.”

She looks up. “Who in admissions?” she asks.

“Nielon?” I say, trying hard to sell the name I just made up. “He said if Cook can’t convince Bailey to come here, no one can. He thought she should sit in on his class today.”

She raises her eyebrows. My use of his nickname Cook stops her, makes her believe me.

“Well, class is half over, but if you want to sit in on the rest of it, I guess I can take you down there…”

“That would be great,” Bailey says. “Thanks.”

She rolls her eyes, uninterested. “So let’s do this,” she says.

We follow her out of the office and walk down several staircases until we arrive at a large lecture hall.

“When you walk in, you’ll be at the front of the class,” she says. “Don’t stop. Don’t look at Professor Cookman. Head up the stairs and go directly to the back of the lecture hall. Got it?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“If you disrupt his class in any way, he’ll ask you to leave,” she says. “Believe me.”

She opens the door and I start to thank her, but she puts her finger to her mouth, shushing me.

“What did I just say?”

Then she is gone, shutting the door behind her, leaving us inside.