In the fall of 2019, I rented a unit at Morningside Self-Storage on the outskirts of Cleaves, Ohio — a concrete maze of identical roll-up doors that all looked the same, except for number 47, painted a pale, dusty lavender. The manager, a tired woman named Doreen, warned me about that unit the first day. She said the previous tenant, a man named Ellis, had left behind one box that nobody wanted to touch. I didn't ask why. I just paid for the month, unlocked the door, and found a cardboard box sealed with clear tape. Inside was a spiral notebook with no name on it. The handwriting was small and neat at first, then got looser, bigger, more frantic as the pages went on. The last entry was dated three weeks before I opened the unit. I read it sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, and by the time I finished, the overhead lights had flickered on — it was dusk. I closed the notebook, taped the box shut, and put it in the back of my car. I still have it. I still read it sometimes. Not because I want to. Because the last page keeps changing.

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