I’m always surprised by the weight of the tin box. But I shouldn’t be. My past is pretty heavy.

It takes a little effort to free the lid. Only papers are inside, mostly torn scraps and napkins, the only things I could get my hands on while at Horizons.

But there’s another thing too.

I lift the folded article I tore from a newspaper in a coffee shop nearly a decade ago, announcing Fitz’s declaring for the League’s draft.

ALL RHODES LEAD TO THE AMERICAN DREAM.

I bring my attention to the shading on Fitz’s face in the black-and-white photo taken so many years ago. But the aging of the paper doesn’t hide the solo dimple on Fitz’s right cheek. I don’t know why I was so relieved to see it still on his face that night at the club. It’s not like you can grow out of a dimple. And though he’s far from the teenage boy I left behind, as a man, Fitz unknowingly was a long, lost time capsule filled with familiarity, warmth, and comfort. Just a minute-long hug and I felt home. I felt like nothing changed, like nothing happened.

It was nice while it lasted, I suppose.

I return the article to the box, catching sight of a chapter of my story written on a napkin I had taken from the cafeteria.

“Dear Fitzy,” I begin to read, my normally easy-to-read writing nearly chicken scratch. But that’s what happens when you write on a napkin. That’s what happens when you write in the dark. “Today I’ve been gone 44 days.”

I won’t read further. I don’t need to. I carry these words and memories with me all the time. And the words on the napkins, the scraps of paper I had to steal, they were never for me anyway. They were meant for the only person in the world who would believe me.

I jump when the doorbell rings and quickly slide the box under my bed. Fitz said he needed an hour. It’s been just over thirty minutes, and not even thirty seconds after the bell rang, it rings again.

I creep to the peephole and then fling myself to the side of the door, trying not to jump when the guy on the other side with the radio wire curling out of his ear knocks.

“No answer, ma’am.”

My lip stings from how hard I bite it.

“Parker.” Knock, knock. “Open the door, please.”