She left me a ring.

Not a valuable one — a garnet thing she wore on her right hand — and a note in the box that said, in her handwriting, Jessi.

For being right.

W.

That is all it said.

She had written it four years earlier, according to the date, on a Thursday.

Arthur is eighty-three and lives with Dana in Ohio now and calls me every few months, and always ends the call by saying, “You know we’re still your people,” which he has said every single time since 2016 and which I have never once managed to answer.

Nina is twenty-one.