Connor delivered a lecture on the failures of the subway map.

Callan corrected his geography.

Cormac asked whether my television got cartoons.

And Cillian found a low drawer where I kept old family photographs.

Which is how the next piece surfaced — not through attorneys or archives or confessions, but through a six-year-old looking for something interesting.

“Hey.

Is this you when you were little?”

He handed me a faded print: my father and me beside a mountain lake.