The Circle

the bed. “No. It’s usually at home, but I brought it
     in. You want to look at it? It’s mostly depressing.”
    Francis had already opened the album. Mae sat next to him, and watched as he turned
     the pages. She saw glimpses of Francis in modest living rooms, amber-lit, and in kitchens,
     the occasional amusement park. Always the parents were blurry or cropped from the
     frames. He arrived at a photo of himself sitting on a skateboard, looking out through
     enormous glasses.
    “Those must have been the mother’s,” he said. “Look at the frames.” He drew his finger
     over the round lenses. “That’s a woman’s style, right?”
    “I think so,” Mae said, staring at Francis’s younger face. He had the same open expression,
     the same prominent nose, the same full lower lip. She felt her eyes filling.
    “I can’t remember those frames,” he said, “I don’t know where they came from. All
     I can think is that my regular glasses had broken and these were hers, and she was
     letting me wear them.”
    “You look cute,” Mae said, but she wanted to cry and cry.
    Francis was squinting at the photo, as if hoping to glean some answers from it if
     he looked long enough.
    “Where was this?” Mae asked.
    “No idea,” he said.
    “You don’t know where you lived?”
    “No clue. Even having pictures is pretty rare. Not all the foster families would give
     you photos, but when they did, they made sure not to show anything that could help
     you find them. No exteriors of the houses, no addresses or street signs or landmarks.”
    “You’re serious?”
    Francis looked at her. “That’s the foster care way.”
    “Why? So you couldn’t come back or what?”
    “It was just a rule. Yeah, so you couldn’t come back. If they had you a year, that
     was the deal, and they didn’t want you landing back on their doorstep again—especially
     when you got older. Some of the kids had some serious tendencies, so the families
     had to worry about when they got older and could track them down.”
    “I had no idea.”
    “Yeah. It’s a weird system but it makes sense.” He drank the rest of his sake and
     got up to adjust the stereo.
    “Can I look?” Mae asked.
    Francis shrugged. Mae paged through it, looking for any identifying imagery. But in
     dozens of photos, she saw no addresses, no homes. All the photos were interiors, or
     anonymous backyards.
    “I bet some of them would want to hear from you,” she said.
    Francis was done with the stereo, and a new song was playing, an old soul song she
     couldn’t name. He sat down next to her.
    “Maybe. But that’s not the agreement.”
    “So you haven’t tried to contact them? I mean, with facial recognition—”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t decided. I mean, that’s why I brought it here. I’m scanning
     the pictures tomorrow just to see. Maybe we get a few matches. But I’m not planning
     to do much beyond that. Just fill in a few gaps.”
    “You have a right to know at least some basics.”
    Mae was leafing through the pages, and landed on a picture of a young Francis, no
     more than five, with two girls, nine or ten, flanking him. Mae knew these were his
     sisters, the two who had been killed, and she wanted to look at them, though she didn’t
     know why. She didn’t want to coerce Francis into talking about them, and knew she
     shouldn’t say anything, that she should allow him to initiate any discussion of them,
     and if he didn’t, soon, she should turn the page.
    He said nothing, so she turned the page, feeling a surge of feeling for him. She’d
     been too tough on him before. He was here, he liked her, he wanted her with him, and
     he was the saddest person she’d ever known. She could change that.
    “Your pulse is going nuts,” he said.
    Mae looked down at her bracelet, and saw that her heart rate was at 134.
    “Let me see yours,” she said.
    He rolled up his sleeve. She grabbed his wrist and turned it. His was at 128.
    “You’re not so calm yourself,” she said, and left her hand resting across his lap.
    “Leave your hand there and watch it get faster,” he said, and together, they did.
     It was astonishing. It quickly rose to 134. She thrilled at her power, the proof of
     it, right before her and measurable. He was at 136.
    “Want me to try something?” she said.
    “I do,” he whispered, his breath labored.
    She reached down into the folds of his pants and found his penis pressing up against
     his belt buckle. She