There was a fire. In the fireplace. A fire that was built of photographs. A mass of them were smoking up the living room, souring the air with who knew what kind of toxins. The photos, all the photos, were of Henry; dozens of Henrys were being licked into oblivion by crackling orange flames.

Andrew was sitting by the hearth, feeding in the pictures one by one with a pair of kitchen tongs. His gaze was so focused on what he was doing that Costanza’s first impression was that he was in a trance.

“Andrew?”

He didn’t look up or acknowledge her. He continued to watch the fire and drop in more photographs. After three or four had fallen into the pyre he said, “In answer to your question, I’ve decided that I wasn’t very good at taking pictures. I knew how to look at things, but I didn’t know how to see them.”

She stood over him. She had not seen his face.

“That wasn’t going to be my question—or my first question,” she said gently.

Still he did not look at her.

“My first question was going to be ‘Are you okay?’”

His answer was to show her his eyes. They were red-rimmed and distant.

After a moment she gestured at the fireplace. “Are you sure you…?”

“I am fucking sure.”

He stood up and walked out of the room. She followed him down the hall and into his bedroom.

Andrew had unpacked boxes and boxes of his photographs and spilled them onto the floor. He had set aside a small group, but a much larger one made up a veritable mountain of prints, apparently earmarked for the fire.

“You know that if you put all this away again, you could come back to it later, in another frame of mind. I could help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

She studied him for a moment. “Imagine having a conversation with a future Andrew,” she persisted. “Imagine explaining to him why you gave up on all this work—and time—and creativity. Perhaps you could—”

Andrew cut her off. “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m your friend.”

Andrew snorted. “That’s fantastic. A whole new definition of friendship, based on, let’s see, dishonesty, secrecy, the withholding of information. Betrayal. No, maybe betrayal is too strong. How about perfidy? I like that word, don’t you? It was on the SATs. Perfidy. It’s so much more—biting than disloyalty, wouldn’t you say? Though disloyalty might work here too.”

She felt weary, very, weary. “Andrew, I’m afraid I’m not following.”

“Henry came to see me this morning at my mom’s.”

She nodded.

“He had a lot of interesting things to say.”

“I know.”