For twelve years, the whole school called her "Trash Girl" because her mother collected cans for a living — until graduation night, when she said one sentence into the microphone and four hundred people rose to their feet in tears.

She finds out who things belong to.

She puts them back.

Last week, I was in my dorm, trying to remember the difference between two types of steel, when my phone buzzed with a photo.

It was a brand-new black composition notebook, flat on a kitchen table.

On the cover, in her careful capital letters: RETURNS. VOL. 2.

Underneath, a message.

Dear Molly, this one is for work. They let me bring my own. The first entry is a wedding ring. I called the lady and she cried on the phone. It's the best part of the job.

A second message came a moment later.

Keep studying, honey.

I looked at that sentence for a long minute.

It was the one she had said every night since I was six.

It used to mean, one day you'll leave all this behind.

It doesn't mean that anymore.

I put down my pen.