ie PICK UP HERE TOMORROW,” Evelyn says. The sun set long ago. As I look around, I notice the remains of breakfast, lunch, and dinner scattered across the room. “OK,” I say. “By the way,” she adds as I start to pack up. “My publicist got an email today from your editor. Inquiring about a photo shoot for the June cover.” “Oh,” I say. Frankie has checked in on me a few times now. I know I need to call her back, update her on this situation. I’m just... not sure of my next move. “T take it you haven’t told them the plan,” Evelyn says. I place my computer in my bag. “Not yet.” I hate the slight tint of sheepishness that comes out when I say it. “That’s fine,” Evelyn says. “I’m not judging you, if that’s what you’re worried about. God knows I’m no defender of the truth.” I laugh. “You'll do what you need to do,” she says. “T will,” I say. I just don’t know what, exactly, that is yet. kk * WHEN I GET home, the package from my mother is sitting just inside my building’s door. I pick it up, only to realize that it’s incredibly heavy. I end up pushing it across the tile floor with my foot. I pull it, one step at a time, up the stairs. And then I drag it into my apartment. When I open the box, it’s filled with some of my father’s photo albums. The front of each is embossed with “James Grant” in the bottom righthand corner. Nothing can stop me from sitting down, right on the floor where I am, and looking through the photos one by one. On-set still photos of directors, famous actors, bored extras, ADs— you name it, they are all in here. My dad loved his job. He loved taking