“What are you looking for?” Xander asks Eliot, who’s rifling through more cardboard boxes. “Something interesting. Something contraband. Maybe decades’ old weed.” I ask, “Which one of our parents do you think stashed weed up here?” “You can’t tell me Uncle Garrison wasn’t a pot head,” Eliot says, hoisting a white tee that says carpe that fucking diem. He tosses it over his shoulder,
