RILEY
Cassidy was thirty-one years old and she lived in an apartment in the Alberta Arts District that had good light and the particular organized sparseness of someone who'd been deliberately building a life outside the structures they'd been born into and had gotten very good at needing only what was genuinely necessary.
She opened the door and looked at me and I looked at her and there was the same moment there had been with Daria and with Theo: the specific recognition of something shared, delivered through the face, through the quality of attention.
She looked like the photograph, too. Different angle, different details — she had his height, the width of his shoulders translated into her frame, the specific way the jaw came forward when she was thinking about something. I wondered
