Luna recalls a stifling summer evening in 1993 when she worked a closing shift at Pellow's Cleaners on Main Street, Northfield, Vermont. A customer in a long black coat drops off a single garment—a charcoal-colored dress—with no name, no ticket, and a smell like wet ash. The door to the back room, normally locked, hangs open. Inside, a wall of old dry-cleaning bags shift on their hangers, and from the farthest corner comes a low, rhythmic sound: a zipper, going up and down, very slowly. Luna never finds out who was in there, or why the dress was returned years later, left on the stoop in a clear plastic bag, still smelling of smoke.