A silver sedan slowed at the curb, and a woman in hospital scrubs stepped out holding a paper cup of coffee. She looked over the crowded lawn, and then her eyes landed on a small yellow bike with a bent bell. The cup slipped from her fingers and splashed across the sidewalk. Nobody moved. Howard stopped smiling. “Ma’am, are you all right?” he asked gently.

She walked past me as if I weren’t there and knelt beside the bike, her hands trembling. “This is impossible,” she whispered. “My mother kept this for twenty-six years.” Then she looked up at Howard, tears running down her face. “Sir, please turn it over. Look underneath the seat. Is there a name scratched there?” Howard’s hands shook as he tipped the bike. Under the seat, in tiny uneven letters, was one word: Nora.