Tristan hovered a few feet behind me, keeping a respectful distance while the fog continued to thicken around us. I waited for some sort of epiphany to strike me—a deep thought to occur that would put everything in perspective—but all I could think was this: Aaron was a minimalist. There wasn’t a shred of clothing in sight. No soda cups or candy-bar wrappers or magazines. No razors or cookie crumbs or crumpled tissues. The only personal items were his canvas beach bag, which was slung over the back of a desk chair, and a hardcover copy of Tales of the City, which lay on his nightstand next to the motel’s old-school telephone, its spine perfectly aligned with the edge of the table. “So…what do I do?” I said quietly. “Find his suitcase, pack everything inside, and—” “And then we take it back to the relic room,” I finished, turning to look over my shoulder. Tristan cleared his throat. “Yes.” “So everyone can go through it and take what they want,” I said bitterly.
