A year after the morning with the suitcases, Roger asked to meet at a public café to discuss a box of photographs Trevor wanted scanned.

I agreed.

There was a time I would have practiced arguments on the way there.

Now I simply arrived early and ordered tea.

Roger looked older.

He had moved into a modest apartment, taken a job with a smaller insurance agency, and learned to cook four dinners.

He told me this with the embarrassed pride of a boy showing his mother a good report card.

“I didn’t know how much you did,” he said.