There is a storage unit in Palm Shores that I have been paying forty-nine dollars a month for since 2014.

I have not opened it in eleven years. I sold her house without opening it. I moved twice without opening it. It has been on my bank statement, forty-nine dollars, month after month, through the marriage and the basement and the trial and all of it, and Logan never noticed it because it was the one automatic payment that predated him.

I drove down in September with Hannah, because I would not have got the door open by myself.

Four boxes and a dining chair.

The chair I remembered — it had been at the head of her table and she had reupholstered it herself, badly, in a green fabric she loved and everyone else found alarming.

The boxes I did not remember at all, because I had not packed them. My aunt had, in the fortnight after the funeral, while I sat in a hotel and was twenty-two.