Casey is the curator of a monthly oddities expo in Los Angeles. We’ve lived together for almost five years and I’ve never been to her show. It’s on my to-do list, right after checking off dates sixty-nine, seventy, and seventy-one. Suffice to say, she gets a little googly-eyed over things like gloves made for people with six fingers, sunken pirate treasure, bearded ladies, and—apparently—mail-order time capsules.

I peel off the keys from the side of the metal box. They look no bigger or sturdier than those I used to keep my diary locked up when I was a teenager. Regardless, they are a perfect fit into the lock, and with a quarter turn to the left, the hinge pops open.

I recognize what’s inside immediately and let go, allowing the box to gently fall back onto the pile of packing peanuts.

I take a few steps back toward the kitchen.

“What is it?” Casey asks again.

There’s an open bottle of wine on the counter. It’s not mine. I don’t know what kind it is. Or who it came from. Or how long it’s been sitting there. In fact, it could be balsamic vinegar, for all I know. Nevertheless, I pop off the cork and chug a quarter of it.

“Jesus, Charlotte. You look like you’ve seen a dead person.”

She’s not far off.

“What the hell is in there?” Casey pries with more intensity.

“It’s an urn,” I say, wiping the wine from my lips with the back of my hand and taking one more pull for good measure.

“Oh, sweet! I can definitely use that in my show.”

Except she can’t.

“My dead husband is in it.”

Casey closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she’s trying to tune out some bad music. “Excuse me? Wait. What? You were married? To who? Back the train up, lady.”

“Hand me your knife again.” I deflect her questioning because I’ve located a large envelope in the packaging, which I imagine is there to explain. Casey ceases fire and hands her blade to me.

I cut the envelope open and rip out its contents so quickly, it gives me an immediate paper cut on the tip of my pointer finger. I draw my finger to my lip and suck on the salty blood as I unfold a typed letter with my other hand.

“Need help, Char? A Band-Aid maybe?”

I shake my head no as I begin to read the letter. Again, it’s addressed to a name I haven’t gone by in almost five years.

Dear Mrs. Austin,

We regret to inform you that the mausoleum in Pala, California, was destroyed in a devastating wildfire on May the 20th of this year.

When the mausoleum identified itself as being in the path of the fires, all urns were evacuated to a safe place. Rest assured, your loved one(s) is still intact, although the Pala Mausoleum is no more.

Hancock Insurance is the company handling the insurance claim filed by the mausoleum. At this time, the owners have declined to rebuild and will be considered permanently closed. As such, we are returning all urns to the documented next of kin.