That man knows the fact of the broken wrist.

He does not remember the life around it, the night, the drive, any of it, because he wasn’t the one it happened to.

He learned it like a line in a script.” She looked at me, and her voice dropped.

“And Mariana.

When he laughed just now.

That wasn’t Sebastian’s laugh.

I would know Sebastian’s laugh anywhere.

That was Santiago’s.” I have thought often about that detail, the laugh, because of all the tells it is the one that could not be faked and could not be learned.