The invitation arrived on a Tuesday morning, cream-colored paper with silver lettering, tucked inside Lucas's tablet case like he had been waiting for the right moment to present it.
"The Morrison Gallery," he said, his ears already cycling through what Kevin had preemptively classified as Shade #NERVOUS_ANTICIPATION—a pale, hopeful pink with undertones of anxiety. "They're hosting a retrospective of contemporary Asian-American artists. The centerpiece is a series of paintings by an artist you used to collect. Before the accident."
"I collected art?"
"You collected seventeen pieces over eight years. All of them are in storage. You told me once that you bought them because they made you feel something, and you didn't have time to feel things in your regular life, so you hung the paintings in your office where you could feel them during meetings." He paused. "The collection is worth approximately four-point-three million dollars. I've been maintaining the insurance policies."
