Then Baz died, and Ed’s view of the world shifted so radically that he no longer recognized himself. One day he looked at his image in the mirror, at his neatly trimmed, graying temples, at his long, manicured fingers, at the powdery-blue collar of his oxford shirt, at the muted, mustardy tone of his cable sweater, and saw right past it all. He saw through his skin, through the jumble of sinews and arteries and bones beneath, to the only thing he knew to be true. To the wounded heart at his center.
