I wonder what my possessions might say about me. I regret not packing my decent underwear now. With a jolt of anxiety, I realize that my diary is in that bag. The inner monologue of a grief-stricken twenty-nine-year-old woman might not be the best introduction to a potential soulmate. I shake my head. The book is clearly a diary; what kind of weirdo would go through someone else’s personal possessions? I look back at the bed, where I have unpacked and inspected the entire contents of this man’s case. Oh.
