When she returns minutes later, her arms are full of shoeboxes, all stacked on top of each other. I frown. “What are those?” She moves toward me as I straighten more, my back flush with the wall. She plops the stack of boxes beside me, lowering herself to her knees. Black permanent marker is scribbled along the side of each box, the ink smudged and worn. Numbers. Years? Reaching for the first box, my heart beats swiftly as I read off the number. “Two-thousand-and-three.” I pull off the top, my nose assaulted with must and age. Inside the box rest dozens of index cards. Hundreds. I glance up at
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