One of the things Allison Cameron likes about her apartment is the way it captures a lot of sunlight. When she can, she'll curl up on the couch with a book, like a cozy visit with an old friend. Not that she gets to spend much time reading; with her job, she's gone all day, and on weekends, she usually has to run around doing other things---laundry, shopping, getting her car worked on...she still drives the compact car she bought new with the insurance check she received as a widow's benefit...it's ten years old now, and she's very careful about maintaining it, since it came at such a high cost. Her apartment has two bedrooms; Allison sleeps in the smaller room, which has better light. The other bedroom is stacked with brown cardboard boxes that have been in and out of storage and gone through several moves. Her attempts to go through them are intermittent and futile. Some day, she often promises herself, she'll examine what artifacts remain from her brief, tragic marriage, but there always seems to be something more important and less traumatic to do.