“Yeah,” I say. I don’t correct my name to Lyd. It feels inappropriate for someone in my position to disagree with someone in his position. I turn back to the sink and dip my hands into the warm water, looking for the bottle I dropped in. When I find it, I take the sponge and start rubbing the part where the glue has stuck onto the glass, up down up down. Gideon watches. He sits on a stool in the corner.

“I wanted to apologize for how we met,” he says, eventually.

“Oh.” I don’t understand what he means. I had been intending to apologize for the same thing, for not recognizing him on the first day. I put the now glue-less bottle on the drying rack, where there are several others lined up.

“I didn’t recognize you. Your father was Taiyo Kobayashi.” He hands me a bottle from the crate. I dip it into the water. “You should let them soak first, you know. Put a few in.” He passes me some more bottles and I add them to the sink.

“You knew my dad?”

“No,” Gideon says. “But I collect his work.”

I’m taken aback. “You do?” I’ve never met anyone who knows Dad’s paintings.

“I do.” I detect a little smugness in his voice, like he expects me perhaps to thank him.

“You must have been influenced by him as an artist.” Gideon says this as a statement, not a question. “It’d be interesting to see your work.”

“I suppose I have been, yes,” I say, feeling guilty again that I haven’t made any work for such a long time.

“Were you close?” Gideon asks.

“Actually, he died before I was born.”

“Ah, I see.” For a moment, I think Gideon maybe looks disappointed; he pauses for a bit too long, and I wonder if he’s expecting me to elaborate, to tell him something about my father or about his work. But then the expression on his face changes. “And how is everything going for you here?”

“Yeah, it’s been hard work—”

“Heather running you ragged?” He smiles.

“Um,” I say, recognizing that Heather must be the woman who put me in the puppet booth last time I was here.

“Don’t mind her too much. She’s all bark, no bite.” Gideon stands up off his stool. “Well, it was good meeting you,” he says, bringing our conversation to an abrupt end. He nods once, then leaves, closing the door behind him.

Once Gideon has gone, I sit down on the floor. I unlock my phone. I have two missed calls from Crimson Orchard, and one voicemail that I don’t listen to. I save my email to Dr. Kerr, which is still open, as a draft, and then I google Gideon.