Clothes changed, and the house tidied, I found myself standing before the open refrigerator, failing to convince myself to eat. I closed the door, reaching for a glass of Burgundy instead. Passing the foyer table, I was reminded of the white box. No name, just a business address somewhere in Maryland, my brother’s home state. I pulled back the flaps, digging through snowy packing peanuts until I came to another box, this one with a card on top. I recognized his writing immediately. “Happy birthday, kiddo. On your second glass of wine yet? Hope it’s red! Say Cheese!” He had scrawled his name, Lars, across the bottom, along with the date: two months after receiving the diagnosis, six months before his death.