When I opened them I marveled at a large dinner plate adorned with a vivid orange monarch and then I , like all the times before, meticulously repackaged it, placing the boxes in the back of my closet. They were stunning and I dreamed of the day that I would have a home for myself and use them. As I mused, however, I never suspected that nearly two decades would pass before I would open those boxes again.

I’m visiting my mom in Wilmington, Delaware for a few weeks in the summer of 2006. I’m fifteen. Mom drank and did a few lines before retiring to the bedroom we shared during our visits. My younger brother stays up with her as she looks out the window for cops, while I escape downstairs to watch MTV. I know from bits I’ve heard on the radio and seen on the Internet that “Miss Murder” is in the top 10. I have to see Davey. I have to hear his voice. I need the song to enter my bloodstream. I don’t care if I had to stay up through the witching hour to hear it. I need it now.