Your uncle freezes. “Celia, you say?” You nod and wait for your uncle to continue. When he doesn’t, you break the silence. “I don’t recall a cousin named Celia. Who is she?” Your question snaps your uncle out of his trance. “Oh, well. She’s your Aunt Elizabeth’s daughter. Not much older than you, I think. You must have played together as kids—you were just too young to remember. Bit of an odd child. You wouldn’t believe the stories Elizabeth used to tell. Anyway, the family moved out to Ohio when you were four or maybe five years old, and they haven’t much stayed in touch. We’ll get a letter once in a while. From what I hear, Celia ran off when she was seventeen, and her parents haven’t heard from her since. But she wrote to you, huh? What did she have to say?” You . . .