Photos littered my apartment floor. Snapshots of birthday parties sulked beneath the table, and a pile of headshots spilled its guts onto the kitchen tiles. I flicked through the ones in my hand and let them fall to join the others, snatching up my Polaroid camera as if it would give me answers.
At a loss, I did what came naturally to me; I raised the camera and took a shot. The image of a dirty, photo-strewn apartment slipped from its belly a few moments later. I let it fall to join the rest.
My phone buzzed. I frowned at the screen, but my options were growing few. Ignoring the text from my service provider reminding me of my dwindling minutes, I punched in a number with the ease of long practice.
“Hey, Mom. Can I come over later today?”
I scoured the attic like I had scoured the boxes of photos shoved into my apartment closet. Bits of metal pricked my fingers and discarded paper scoured lines along my palm. I pushed a box aside, ignoring the twinge in my back, and grabbe