“Everything’s a dollar in this box,” the man said, shoving the shoe box toward me. “Twelve for ten.” Twelve for ten, I thought, was surely some kind of bargain for a bag of a stranger’s memories. But much too heavy to wrap my brain around. I picked past the dog tags and shot glasses, past costume jewelry and a ring of rusty keys. Settled on a chandelier crystal, palest blue with a slight aurora borealis finish. I handed him a dollar and turned, wanting to get away before he thought to tell me the story.