From the television came the soft deep lilt of Virginia and in counterpoint a more familiar voice, slightly husky, carefully modulated and still New Jersey. She disliked her accent, or had, back then. Maybe she had learned to appreciate it; maybe they couldn’t afford to hire a professional voice-over actor. In fact, she sounded as if she had a little bit of a cold when she recorded the narration.

Prone to upper respiratory infections. That was something to write, and: Hates going to the doctor. Hates letting anybody do anything for her. Does her own taxes, paints her own walls. Cuts her own hair.

He pushed away from the desk and went to look out the window, imagined Angie down there walking under the cherry trees. She was coming, and he couldn’t stop it. She would make friends in the town; in a week everybody would know her name. It was her particular gift, making people open up. He had seen her following an irascible old mailman around for days until she had soaked up everything he had to teach her about a neighborhood she was interested in filming. No doubt he still sent her Christmas cards. No doubt she answered them.

The truth was, he didn’t want to stop what was coming, and there was the hardest truth at all, one he could hardly admit to himself or even to his brother, who had given him a particular look when he found out who it was that owned Tied to the Tracks.

At the very least, he had to tell Caroline, and soon.

He thought of Miss Maddie’s small, kind face, the light in her eyes when she talked about the documentary. Thought of his own silence, when he should have spoken up. The things he meant to say were simple: It’s a brilliant piece of work. She’s come so far, she has the eye. If he could give her nothing else, he must give her that much, respect for the work she did, for the work she would be here to do.

From the television set came another voice, strong and sure but with an old woman’s gentle wobble.

“Nobody asked me,” she was saying. “My turn came and I had to climb up into that train. Sometimes I thought about just lying down in front of it, instead.”

John looked out over the empty campus. Then he turned back to the form on his desk. On it he wrote: Please contact these persons directly for answers to these questions.

And while you’re at it, he might have written, could you ask Angie what actually happened five years ago this Labor Day?

Because while John had what seemed like almost perfect recall when it came to that summer before he left Columbia for Princeton, the last few days—the last days he had spent with Angie Mangiamele—were a complete mystery to him.