Tobin holds my hand as he takes me on a tour of our house. These rooms are new to me, this furniture strange, though he says we picked it out together, we decorated everything together. I don’t remember any of it. He shows me the knickknacks in the den, scattered across the mantle above the fireplace and filling bookshelves that line the wall, but none of them trigger anything. They’re just ornaments of blown glass that I’d see in a store somewhere and never look at twice. He points out which ones I bought him, in various shades of blue resting like a pool of water on one shelf. He shows me the knives he says I collected—daggers and bodkins and poniards, beautifully crafted hilts with stainless blades of steel.
“I bought you this one when we wed,” he tells me, picking up an exceptional s
