Mr. Ree's apartment door was loosely swinging on rusted hinges. The dial tone of a phone echoed through the hall, an incessant ringing too loud to make any sense.

I shoved the door open with a gloved hand and stood in the doorway, my eyes unable to settle on what I saw. Newspapers covered everything. Stacks of every rag and sheet available between the rivers teetered like funhouse skyscrapers. The walls, floors, and furniture were covered with papers, inky contours wrapping every table leg and hiding every speck of plaster on the walls.

And the red. It was hard to tell the red pen and the red leaking from Mr. Ree's body apart.

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