The second was about a red umbrella that appeared on a rainy Tuesday. A woman had left it at the crosswalk, and whoever found it became inexplicably brave for the rest of the week. Rawly swore he’d seen it open itself like a small ceremony and then click shut, its ribs full of secrets. The truth, he said, was that the umbrella belonged to someone he once loved and lost to a season that smelled of cut grass. There were no dramatic reconciliations in his story, only the steady, strange courage the umbrella seemed to give to strangers — a courage he liked to imagine had saved them from saying something they’d regret.