Wren
My whole life fit into eleven boxes.
That was the thought I kept circling as I stood in the middle of my apartment on Sunday morning, surrounded by cardboard and packing tape and six years of living. Eleven boxes. It seemed like there should be more. It seemed like there should be less.
"Okay," Caius announced from the kitchen, where he was wrapping my mugs in newspaper with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. "Official ruling. You own too many mugs. Nobody needs fourteen mugs, Wren. You have two hands."
"They're for guests."
"You told me yesterday you never have guests."
"They're for hypothetical guests."
"Fourteen hypothetical guests." He held one up. It was shaped like a sleepy hedgehog. "This one's mine now. Consider it a moving fee."
He had shown up at eight in the mornin
