Somewhere in a second-hand book, there’s a Polaroid with a code on the back, and a man who wants you to read his story.
The crying starts on the third night. Not in the doctor’s office, not in the car on my way home, not anywhere you’d see a protagonist fall apart in the movies. It starts with something mundane: brushing my teeth. There is no apparent reason. There is one big reason, of course, but no reason to cry about brushing your teeth, unless you’re seven and your mom is making you.



















