Page 52 of Slapshot Baby

He turns. His eyes are wet but nothing has fallen. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscles working beneath his stubble.

"You're my friend. Friends don't leave because it gets uncomfortable. You can yell at me. You can tell me my methods are terrible and my calendar is patronizing and my photos are in the wrong order.” I pause. “Actually, you shouldn’t tell me any of that. But whatever you do, you don't get to shut me out for caring about you."

The silence stretches.

"Your photos are in the wrong order," he says quietly.

"No, they're not."

"The team portrait is from before the championship. You have it after."

I blink. Look at the mantle. He's right. The suited team photo is dated three months before the championship.

"You remember the order?"

"I read the dates on the frames."

"Oh." My shoulders drop. "That's less exciting than I thought."

The anger on his face loosens. He sits back down, closer than before.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be accurate about who's helping you and why."

His knee presses against mine. He doesn't move it, neither do I.

Over the next two weeks, the apartment transforms.

I buy a whiteboard Kai uses for his daily reminders. Turns out he prefers that to desk calendars.

The photos stay on the mantle. The key bowl collects his wallet and phone alongside the keys.

Mira adds her own items to the bowl and tells me I've created a monster because now Kai corrects her when she leaves things in the wrong spot.

We discover that the ice rink parking lot triggers something. The smell of cold air through the facility doors.

Kai stands there one afternoon with his eyes closed, and I watch his face cycle through emotions he can't name.

"There's a feeling I have here," he says. "Not a memory. But the feeling is strong."

"That counts."

"It doesn't feel like enough."

"It's a start."

I drive him to the restaurant on Fourth Street because Mira mentioned he used to go there. He doesn't remember the name, but when the waiter greets him by name and brings his usual order without asking, something flickers behind his eyes.

"Rigatoni," he says, staring at the plate. "I order the rigatoni."

"Apparently."

"It's good. I have great taste."

"You have adequate taste. I have great taste."

He kicks me under the table. I kick him back.