The back of the garage had been converted to a makeshift living space—the light from one end didn’t quite reach the other, giving the appearance of a sound stage or set from a play illuminated as the curtain rose. In one corner was the kitchen, nothing more than a small sink, a fridge and oven crammed together, a microwave on one short counter. A card table and two folding chairs served as a dining area. In the other corner was the living/bedroom. A 13” tv stood on top of the dresser where Ange kept his clothes. A fold-out couch in front of the dresser was always open, the sheets rumpled, and now a bath towel hung discarded from the foot of the bed.
Between the card table and the sofa was a door, the only one along the back wall of the garage. It led to a tiny bathroom so small that Stacy
