“I love that face.” Peter and I stood between his desk and his student chair. I barely heard my own voice say, “What face?” “The one you're making right now—when your lips part a little and your brow’s pinched. You look like you’re trying to see something, but it’s something in your mind—you’re thinking.” I shut my mouth, then opened it. “I was picturing a door.” His closed-lip smile spread slowly across his face, and though it is a loss not to see his teeth when he grins, his closed-lip smile is the rarer gift, I think—the soft one he saves for people he lets into the quiet. “I opened a door
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