"Just looking at old blueprints," Elias said, sliding the photo toward her.

The neon sign for "Dirty Frank’s" flickered, casting a bruised purple glow over the rain-slicked pavement of Pine Street. Inside, Elias sat at the far end of the bar, his hands—calloused from forty years of restoring South Philly rowhomes—wrapped around a glass of neat rye.

At sixty-five, Elias wasn’t looking for a "scene." He was looking for a memory.

When the rain let up, they walked out together. Claire pulled out a small digital camera. "Stand by the lamppost," she commanded.