The place smelled of bleach and old air conditioning, the particular non-smell of a room that belongs to no one.

I took the photograph of Leo out of my bag and set it on the nightstand, facing the bed, so that his laughing face would be the last thing I saw.

“I miss you, my sweet boy,” I told the empty room.

“I miss you so much.”

And then, because I had to do something with my hands or I was going to come apart entirely, I unzipped my duffel to find a change of clothes — and my hand brushed against a thick manila folder tucked into the side pocket, a folder I had grabbed on instinct, in a daze, without even registering what it was.

I pulled it out and opened the clasp.