I remained near the foot of the bed.
The first photographs were easy.
Emma at a school concert.
Clara covered in mud.
Leah standing in front of her new house.
Noah asked questions. Some of the answers amused him. Others left him quiet.
Then came a photograph of Marlowe.
The dog lay on his back with all four paws in the air, Noah’s sock caught between his teeth.
Noah stared at it.
“He’s mine?”
“Ours,” I said, then immediately added, “He lives at the apartment.”
“What kind?”
“Golden retriever. Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“He has some criminal tendencies.”
Leah showed him another photograph.
Noah and Marlowe slept together on the couch, the dog’s head tucked beneath Noah’s chin.
His fingers tightened on the edge of the album.
“He looks old.”
“He is,” I said.
“Does he miss me?”
Every answer available felt dangerous.
“Yes.”
Noah shut his eye.
Leah waited before turning the page.
The yard came next.
Noah in work clothes, standing beneath the hull of a sailboat.
Noah holding a heat-damaged switch panel.
Noah at the anniversary party with Caleb and Owen.
He studied the tools, the boats, the shape of the workshop.
