On the eighth of November 2023, Jillian Lin phoned me at twenty past nine at night and said: “Can you come over?

Nathan’s found something and he can’t say it on the phone.”

So I drove nine minutes to Oak Street in a coat over a jumper and sat at the same kitchen table.

And in the middle of that table was a white envelope with a plastic window in it, slightly furred at one corner, with a ring of coffee on it.

It had been on top of their microwave since the middle of March.