The next few images were candids of the family. Dad off to the side. The Stockton girls sitting by the half-decorated Christmas tree. (It had been my job to finish it.) There was random garland and holly in the background, and the date stamps—December 26, 25, 24—slipped back in time with the images. There was a picture of Dad, his girlfriend Sandra, and her daughter, Tamara. Tamara’s arm was still in a sling from a fall down the stairs, and she was frowning as she talked to Dad and Sandra. That kid was always either talking, complaining, or flirting with Kurt. But she’d done us all a favor when she’d broken that arm and delayed the wedding.

I kept pressing buttons until I hit the first of December and then worked my way back in time. There were a few of me, but I was always looking off to the side. Clare could be quick with the camera, and a distracted person could miss the soft click.

There were two images of Kurt. In one, he was wearing his football jacket. He’d been more muscular, leaner in those days. His hair was short, and his face bore the same grim expression his teammates shared. Reminded me of children mimicking adults who really understood the world. Next there was a shot of Jack and Brit, standing arm in arm, smiling.

I scrolled back to late November, when Clare would have gotten pregnant. The first was a wide shot of an art studio in the city that had long ago closed. That was the show I was supposed to have attended.

The next image was of a young man. Tall, broad shouldered, dark hair, and facing away from the camera. I couldn’t make out his face.

In the next frame, he was turned slightly to the side, and his profile was in full view. Dark eyes, rounded face. My first thought was David. It couldn’t be David, could it? He’d had no ties to the city or us then.

Suddenly restless, I rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. The coffee dripped into the carafe as I rested my elbows on the counter and placed my head in my hands.

As I stared at this much younger version of David, a name called out to me from the Black Hole. Jeff. I didn’t know any Jeffs but was suddenly certain that, during the lost week and a half, I’d met a Jeff.

When the coffeepot was full, I filled a mug and stirred in extra teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. The sugar would soothe my nerve endings’ cravings that I always had after a drinking binge, and the caffeine would chase away the fatigue creeping up my spine.