At noon, the minibus returned. The remaining guests were heading to the naval yard at last. Ana sat on one side of the bus, Pars on the other. Mrs. McIntyre counted heads. Half the seats lay empty. On the Peninsular Road, the wind scattered leaves; the sky was Wedgwood blue, the trees changing orange and red. It was autumn already, Ana thought wistfully, peering out the window. For days she’d been dreading this trip to the hangar. Others had been there already, picking through the possessions of the dead. She wasn’t sure which she feared most: finding something of Russell’s, or finding nothing at all.

They drove past fields of grazing Jerseys. Meadows gone to seed. Late herons like lawn statues in estuaries. At the end of the island, they arrived at a gate. Quonset huts shimmered under the afternoon sun. Dozens of vehicles sat parked on a weedy tarmac. An airplane hangar glittered beside the sea.

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.