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and even though they are very happy that we are all gathered here today to remember what a wonderful person Gordy was, it still makes them sad to think about him sometimes.”
    The small boy with the glasses raises his hand, squinting his eyes. The teacher hesitates but decides to call on him.
    “Charles?”
    “Why did he kill Gordy?” Charles asks without looking up.
    “I don’t know, Charles. Nobody does. It just happened. Gordy went to the bathroom to get a drink of water. The man who walked into the school was very angry and depressed. It could have been anyone.”
    “But he must have done something. He must have. He must,” Charles insists, too quietly for the teacher to hear. For the rest of the day and the rest of the night, Charles doesn’t say another word.

    I’ M STILL HOLDING THE NEWSPAPER IN MY HAND . T HE article continues on page four. I turn to read the rest of the article, the columns blocking in a large photograph of Gordy, his second grade yearbook photo. He looks uncannily similar to Charles—the shock of blond hair, the round glasses, the missing front teeth—and I can see why Charles would have beendisturbed. It’s like looking into an alternate reality, a reality just as arbitrary and just as likely as the one that happened.
    I squat down and examine the dusty bookshelf. There are books about Copernicus and Aristotle, Darwin and Newton, Einstein and Hawking. All of these suggest a young scientist in the making, someone who was determined to discover rules to the way the world works. I slip the newspaper article about Gordy into my back pocket, sure that if I were to leave it in the bedroom, it would somehow vanish. I don’t trust permanence to be a rule in this house.
    I then enter the room next to Jess’s, on the side closest to the living room. The door is already slightly agape, and when I open it further and flip on the lights, I discover something completely different from the previous room. While both are sterile, appearing untouched for weeks or months, there was an asymmetry to the bedroom, to the way that it was laid out. In contrast, this room, which appears to be an office, supports an equilibrium, a balance to all of its disparate parts. Then again, how can there be asymmetry when the room is essentially blank? The walls are empty, a fresh coat of white. The bookshelves are empty, sterile metal. There are ten pens on top of the mahogany desk, five red pens on one side and five blue pens on the other, two fake leafy potted plants, each in opposite corners of the room. An expansive navy blue rug covers the floor. A small window hovers over the desk. There is no computer, no printer, no phone. There are no signs of modern technology.
    I sit down in the desk chair, handsome black leather. I try to pull open one of the drawers but it won’t budge. There’s aniron lock on the left-hand side. I attempt the other drawers. The next two are both locked as well. When I try the top right-hand drawer, it slides open effortlessly, though, and inside I find a key next to a tin of paperclips and a roll of postage stamps. I take the key, sliding it into the iron lock. The first half of it manages to go in, but as I push further, the rest of it jams and then won’t come out.
    Maybe I should just leave this drawer alone. It’s most likely nothing, office supplies, paper, or literally nothing, an empty drawer. But I want it to be the right key. Keys are supposed to fit into locks. That’s what they do. I continue staring at the small, mangled key, willing it to transform into something useful. But then the desk catches my eye. It’s slouching. The right side of the desk is notably lower, the wood warped and sagging. I lean down, placing my hand underneath the edge of the locked drawer, wondering if I can just pull it out, but I realize that I won’t have to. The wood underneath is thin, worn through. I take off one of my shoes, pull my arm back and smash the thick leather sole against the