First time all morning I’ve seen a smile on your face, Miss. Didn’t I tell you from the start that Miss Caroline’s story was worth knowing?

Pat never acknowledged my letter, the five dollars, or the snowflakes. He’s a writer, so again I thought that he would write to me. Instead, it was Mr. Watkin who stopped by the house to tell me that the danger had passed. Mr. Watkin had not been able to travel to New Orleans himself, but he had asked a printer there to look in on Lafcadio for him. Every time Mr. Watkin said “Lafcadio,” I would have a firefly moment when I would forget whom he was talking about. It was easier to hear him spoken about as Lafcadio. I didn’t know that man. I couldn’t see him in my mind. I had no memories of him. My heart stayed in its place. My throat was empty of songs.

I’d invited Mr. Watkin inside the house that time, and he looked around at the shelves and saw the one book that was still there. I followed his eyes, and I said that Bill had read it from cover to cover and started right over again. Mr. Watkin said that, if it was all right with me, he would stop by again and bring Bill a couple more books. He did. That was how the two of them became acquainted, one book after the other. Later, their visits were at Mr. Watkin’s shop, where the two of them would pass the time talking about what Bill had read and what he had understood. Bill called him “Mr. Henry.” When Bill’s schooling came to an end, Mr. Henry offered him an apprenticeship in his shop.

Bill is doing just fine these days, Miss.

Yes, that’s right, he’s a printer by trade.

Yes, he’s married now.

Yes, he’s still living in Cincinnati.

Yes, I do see him every day, Miss.

Listen, Bill is a private man with a business and a family of his own now, and he hasn’t decided yet whether he wants his name and his story in the newspaper alongside mine. I’m sure he’ll let you know when he makes up his mind, Miss.

About two or so years after Mr. Watkin first came into our lives, he knocked on the kitchen door at Mrs. Haslam’s as I was cleaning up after breakfast.

Mrs. Hearn, one day I will show up unannounced with good news again, but this is not the day, he began. Lafcadio has passed away in Baton Rouge. Marsh fever was what I heard, he said, his eyes darting around the kitchen as if it were on fire. I didn’t want you to hear about it from a stranger while I’m away. The wife’s health is poorly, Mrs. Hearn, and we’re leaving the city so that she can be with her people in Virginia. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I will be.

I said a prayer aloud for Pat that night.