May 6
There were boxes everywhere in the apartment on Caster Street. Some opened. Others half-taped closed. Most were labeled bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Two were designated miscellaneous. Dawson rented a U-Haul, which was parked outside our apartment. We spent the sunny morning toting the boxes downstairs and loading up the moving truck.
Two hours into the gig, he complained of already being tired. He leaned against the front, brick wall to our five-story apartment building and wiped sweat away from his brow with the back of his right hand.
“I’m a little out of shape and need to get back to the gym.”
“Honestly, you’re perfect just the way you are,” I told him.
“Alex tells me that all the time.”
“Speaking of Alex, why isn’t he helping you move? Where is he?”
“He’ll
