Sheldon Dustman

Theodore

It was a little black book of Life. I found it at an estate sale in an impoverished neighborhood, in a tattered cardboard box, jumbled together with a heap of rubbish and frayed, yellow folios of handwritten sheet music. A radiance emanated from its leather cover, seemingly iridescent amongst the refuse, and, from the moment I touched it, I knew it was precious—or, rather, had been meant to be precious.