He could bring Veronica back here, walk her through the historical house, pretending he was a tourist, and show her the map of the life he’d once lived. The table where they’d eaten meals together. The backyard where so many parties had been held. The garage where he and his father worked on cars. His brother’s room, which he’d sat outside of sometimes when he was small, listening, hoping for an invitation inside. The chair in which his mother sat in his room when she read him stories before bed.

The phone rang, and then there was a click. “Scott?” Veronica asked, in lieu of hello. “Is that you?”

He pressed the phone close to his face, feeling its inert, mechanical warmth. “Yes,” he answered. “It’s me.”