The morning light crept through the curtains of George's Chicago apartment, painting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. He'd been awake for hours, sitting at the kitchen table with the metal box open before him. The documents inside were spread across the surface like a map of his family's sins. Each page was a wound, each photograph a scar.
George reached for his coffee, now cold, and took a sip anyway. The bitterness matched his mood.
Sam found him there, her robe wrapped tightly around her against the morning chill. She didn't say anything at first, just stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders.
"You've been at this all night," she finally said.
"I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what else might be in here. What else I might have missed."
Sam sat down beside him. "
