She had missed his jokes, the books he had lent her, the flashes of laughter in his gaze. Caught in the memory of the easier Will of an earlier time, she spoke without thinking: “I cannot stop recollecting something you told me once,” she said. He looked at her in surprise. “Yes? And what is that?” “That sometimes when you cannot decide what to do, you pretend you are a character in a book, because it is easier to decide what they would do.” “I am,” Will said, “perhaps, not someone to take advice from if you are seeking happiness.” “Not happiness. Not exactly. I want to help—to do good—” She
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