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“I have something I need to give to your mom personally⁠—”

“Is she dying?” Analise interrupted him.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, “How can I find her?”

Yeah? Was it strange she wanted to hug him? Fold him into her and say, It’s okay if you want to cry. She traced his words on the napkin: Can we talk? Taylor. “I don’t remember being in the same classes together,” she said, evading his question, wanting to pump him with her own, “which meant you were in all the classes for the smart kids, like advanced placement or post-secondary.”

He didn’t answer.

“Were you?”

“What?”

“In those classes?”

He nodded absently.

She looked over his fancy clothes and car. “What do you do now?”

Taylor placed a heavy gaze on her. “I’m in my last year of residency.”

“A doctor?”

“Neurologist.”

With a mirthless laugh, she said, “I could be one of your patients with all my brain injuries. One ironically was from a soccer ball.”

He appeared to mirror her laugh, but it wasn’t quite genuine. “How’d that happen?”

“Cross country practice. We were doing laps around the boys’ soccer team. Could’ve been you that hit me.”

“Could’ve been,” he said, resuming his stare past her shoulder. He fidgeted with his watch. “And you don’t remember the other one?”

“My mom said I was found unconscious in our neighborhood in Minneapolis.”

He tilted his face to the sky and wiped a palm on it.

“Why neurology?” she asked, satisfying her urge to keep him talking. It seemed he was chained to an unbearable weight, condemned to a bottomless sadness.

Taylor stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I wish now I would’ve chosen physical or occupational therapy. All I do is look at brain scans, tweak seizure drugs, and watch people slowly die from dementia.”

“At least you’ll make more money than a therapist.” She tried a lighthearted approach and then kicked herself.

“Too late for that. But I’m not gonna bitch about it.”

“You could if you wanted. I wouldn’t judge you.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” he said warmly, and that strange familiarity with him returned. His smile was authentic, but still, it couldn’t erase the melancholy in his eyes.

Analise finally caved. “My mom works over on Fifth at Jorgen’s. Just go see her.”

“Do you have her home address instead?” He pulled out his phone.

Analise nodded and gave it to him, watching his thumbs tap the information.

“How long are you staying here?” she asked, staring once again at his penmanship: I’m at the AmericInn Hotel.

“After I see your mom, I’ll head back to the Cities.” He locked his phone and slid it into his pocket. “How late does she work?”