“Now, what is caboodle? I don’t think we think it means the same thing.” I toss back the rest of my water. Seb sips his second Calvados. A shift change has occurred, and new faces in uniform populate the floor.

“Not caboodle, Kabul.” Seb clears his throat. “My brother. He was stationed there in Afghanistan when he died. Chemical warfare was being used, both as a physical and moral tactic.” Seb turns his gaze to the window. “Worse . . . if it can get worse . . . I fear I disappointed him while he was abroad.” His shoulders hunch forward.

Conversations seem to hush around us, as though in response to Seb’s confession. Emotion tightens my throat at the image he paints with his words: two brothers, separated by some of the most heinous, appalling acts this world can offer—not twins, but the closeness Seb seems to still feel for his brother could be a mirror to the love I have for my sister. Seeing him so heartbroken, years after his loss, jars loose some of the wall I’d built between us back in Angela’s apartment.

Angela, where are you?

“This is none of my business,” I say. “But whatever happened between you two, you have to forgive yourself. You know that, right? Your brother’s death is a tragedy. Not your fault.”

“No, I know. Perhaps. I just would hate to have disappointed him in the end. My family’s opinion is very important to me. When I became a neurologist instead of a surgeon like my uncle, it did not go well. My uncle has never stopped telling me how disappointed he is.” Seb gives a clipped laugh. “So maybe I should care less about family.”

“Maybe.”

My thoughts are lingering on Seb’s morose expression, him staring out the window, recalling his brother’s death, when he raises his glass. “Then let us toast. To not seeking happiness in others’ opinions. To finding stability from within.”

We exchange cheers. Sunlight shifts toward the tall buildings and museum along this side of the tower.

“Shall we?” Seb rises, offering his arm to me.

“Did we pay the bill?”

A smile stops at his mouth. “Have you ever done a restau-baskets?”

“Restaurant . . . basketball shoes. Dine and dash? Are you serious?”

He doesn’t blink from my stare. I can’t tell whether he’s messing with me again. Shock pierces the relaxation I felt.

Seb cracks into a grin. “Come, come. It was a joke. Here comes the server now. The look on your face!” He bursts into laughter, then pokes my side until I start to laugh, too.

We descend in the elevator to the ground level after paying (he insists again), then he stumbles into the park, with me following. A pair of costumed sailors, the kind you take photos with along Hollywood Boulevard or Times Square, amble toward the river. Couples lie flat on their blankets, staring at the clear sky.

“Man,” I groan.