His eyes were the pale color of skinned grapes, the laugh lines around them like the three-pronged tracks of some long-legged bird. In my favorite photo, he was preserved in the moment before a smile, his gaze fixed upon something above the lens—the face, I guessed, of whoever held the camera. I spread two fingers apart to zoom. On some base level, I knew we were made to collide. We matched. We set a time. His name was Leo. So was his star sign.