My father; the last cabinet maker in our district. Upon his death, he left me a wardrobe I watched him build forty years ago. Although he forbade anyone entering his workshop, I often spied on him from the ground-level window, which looked down into his subterranean realm. His passion for his art was so strong he always chose mahogany over me and Mother. The way he handled us was not nearly as tender.

Brad was a craftsman of a different kind. He sliced open my chest, removed my heart, hollowed it out and set it back inside, the egg-shell-thin crust intact; all without leaving a visible scar.

I sat on the warm wooden floor. Brad sat in front of me, in a box, bursting with photographs. Us in the park, us in Paris—us in prison to be precise. Beyond the box was father’s wardrobe—ten feet tall, Edwardian, oak, stained.

Sweat wept from my forehead. Flames devoured the wardrobe and nibbled on the box of photos.

The burnt-out match twirled between my fingers.

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