Three-one-seven.

F-forty-seven.

I could have kept it hidden, wrapped in a handkerchief, as though every object from my father had to carry a burden.

Instead I placed it on a low bookshelf beside a photograph of Owen and a small ceramic bowl from Dana.

The following afternoon, Vincent called and asked whether I had plans for Saturday.

I said I might go to a museum with Owen if the weather held.

He asked whether I would like company.