Dana Lustery High Quality (Chrome BEST)

On a Tuesday in mid-November, Dana comes home from work. Her condo is immaculate. The air smells of the unscented candle she burns for exactly 45 minutes each evening. She hangs her coat, lines up her shoes, and walks into the kitchen.

On the 64th morning, she finds not an orange, but a handwritten note, folded beneath one. The handwriting is spidery, frantic, yet unmistakable. It is her brother Leo’s. dana lustery

At 11:00 PM on December 21st, Dana Lustery does not prepare for bed. She puts on her heaviest coat. She takes one of the fresher oranges from the counter—#61—and places it in her coat pocket. She does not drive. She takes a city bus, then a train. She arrives at the Greyhound station in Omaha at 1:45 AM. It smells of stale coffee, floor wax, and lost time. On a Tuesday in mid-November, Dana comes home from work