“Were we happy?” Leith asked Zach. After sitting stiffly in the chair and barely meeting Leith’s eyes for the first ten minutes of his visit, Zach had kicked off his shoes, and sat opposite him, cross-legged on Leith’s narrow hospital bed. The small box of photos rested between them. He looked up at Leith, his eyes lit with something bright and hopeful, but then the light faded. “You and Naomi?” “Yes,” Leith replied, but he was distracted. He didn’t know why, but he really liked the yellow polo shirt Zach was wearing. There was something compelling about it—not quite familiar, but like a stimulus that he recognized and somehow missed. He had a strange urge to reach out and feel the fabric. “Did you used to wear that shirt a lot?” Leith asked, distracted from his original question by Zach’s sober expression, and the yellow shirt again. “No.”
