He turns the pieces over slowly one by one, doing his best to disconnect his emotions from the job, and when that doesn’t work dissecting his reactions and assumptions between too much involvement and too little information. But still he finds himself in front of it most nights.
The Champ box. In the living room, dining room, at the desk. Hands on them, until he could sketch each from memory in his sleep. The teeth of the key, and the tone of his father’s voice. Where the papers wrinkle. Each one a piece of a legend he still can’t translate.