It took a moment for Ana to adjust to the fluorescent lights inside. Men in white jumpsuits and orange gloves moved about the hangar, some on foot, some steering forklifts. A man in a blue suit and bushy sideburns addressed them all. The personal possessions, he said, were still technically evidence, but the families were welcome to look among them and identify things that had belonged to their loved ones. He instructed them not to touch anything but to call over one of the technicians posted at each table. The items themselves were separated by category: handbags on one table, overcoats on another, laptops and briefcases on another, and so on. They could have the personal possessions back, he said, but not right away. They needed to fill out some forms, and the items would be returned to their rightful owners as soon as possible.

He pressed his palms together in front of his chest.

Are there any questions?

No one had any questions. Mrs. Liang started moving toward the tables. The man held his clipboard out to the side and said, okay, they were free to wander at will.

Ana headed toward the back. She wanted to start in one corner and work her way systematically toward the front. The tables were draped with white cloth, the items numbered with index cards, some secured in plastic bags with recovery tags attached. Men and women stood stationed at a respectful distance between every few tables, gloved hands behind their backs. The hangar was hushed, sepulchral, yet the tables looked disturbingly familiar, like those at a church tag sale, or a down-at-the-heels department store. Women’s purses sat side by side, handbags with leather straps, rhinestones, a Coach bag, a Gucci. Ana had to remind herself to keep focused; she felt her forehead go damp with sweat.

She stopped at a table filled with footwear. There must have been over eighty individual shoes—pumps, espadrilles, Birkenstocks, cowboy boots—some in pairs, others alone. Russell was a loafer man. Bass Weejuns his favorites, with beef rolls or sometimes tassels (he was particular about his shoes). Ana’s heart raced when she saw a loafer, but it was much too large for Russell’s. A size eleven at least—and it was black; he never bought black, always oxblood or brown. She circled the table twice, her heart still thudding, until she was certain: Russell’s shoes were definitely not there.

She moved on to the next table where Pars stood frozen, staring at dozens of watches laid neatly in rows: wristwatches with thin gold bands, digital displays. A Bart Simpson watch. A New York Yankees watch. Ana touched his elbow.

Are you all right? she asked.

No. He shook his head, then said: They’re still ticking.

Ana leaned closer. She hadn’t noticed it at first. The glass was still intact on most of them. All of the second hands were jerking together in syncopation.

Jesus, she whispered.

Pars checked his own wristwatch. All of them, he saw, were set correctly to Eastern standard time.