I can’t breathe. There’s no air in this room, even with the window cracked. That last breath was probably my last, and this is where it ends, in this apartment, this bedroom, this shrine to my childhood my parents have created. There’s the game ball from a no-hitter. A plastic trophy for graduating kindergarten. A framed newspaper article with a picture of me sliding into second, spikes raised thigh-high (I dare you to tag me, I dare you), a prom photo from the only one I didn’t take her …