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I was sitting cross-legged on Ethan's living room floor that Saturday afternoon, surrounded by a bit of disarray that comes after police have gone through someone's life.
There were cardboard boxes with evidence tape still hanging on the sides, manila envelopes stamped with official seals, and a few plastic bags containing personal items that looked oddly small and sad without their context.
The three of us, Ethan, Adrien, and I...had somehow turned this whole mess into a strange, subdued version of show-and-tell, passing things around like we were archaeologists digging through the remnants of someone else's mistakes.
It felt oddly domestic, almost comforting in its ridiculousness. Sunlight filtered through the half-open blinds, casting lazy golden bars across the hardwood floor, catching dust motes that floated like tiny planets.
