Description: Excerpted with permission from Sarah Pinsker''s "Two Truths and a Lie" In his last years, Marco''s older brother Denny had become one ofthose people whose possessions swallowed them entirely. The kind theymade documentaries about, the kind people staged interventions for, thekind people made excuses not to visit, and who stopped going out, andwho were spoken of in sighs and silences. Those were the things Stellathought about after Denny died, and those were the reasons why, aftereyeing the four other people at the funeral, she offered to help Marcoclean out the house. "Are you sure?" Marco asked. "You barely even knew him. It''s been thirty years since you saw him last." Marco''s husband, Justin, elbowed Marco in the ribs. "Take her up on it. I''ve got to get home tomorrow and you could use help." "I don''t mind. Denny was nice to me," Stella said, and then added, "But I''d be doing it to help you." The first part was a lie, the second part true. Denny had been theweird older brother who was always there when their friends hung out atMarco''s back in high school, always lurking with a notebook and afurtive expression. She remembered Marco going out of his way to try toinclude Denny, Marco''s admiration wrapped in disappointment, his slowslide into embarrassment. She and Marco had been good friends then, but she hadn''t kept up withanyone from high school. She had no excuse; social media couldreconnect just about anyone at any time. She wasn''t sure what it saidabout her or them that nobody had tried to communicate. On the first night of her visit with her parents, her mother hadsaid, "Your friend Marco''s brother died this week," and Stella hadsuddenly been overwhelmed with remorse for having let that particularfriendship lapse. Even more so when she read the obituary her mother hadclipped, and she realized Marco''s parents had died a few years before.That was why she went to the funeral and that was why she volunteered. "I''d like to help," she said. Two days later, she arrived at the house wearing clothes from a bagher mother had never gotten around to donating: jeans decades out ofstyle and dappled with paint, treadworn gym shoes, and a baggy,age-stretched T-shirt from the Tim Burton Batman. She wasn''tself-conscious about the clothes--they made sense for deep cleaning--butthere was something surreal about the combination of these particularclothes and this particular door. "I can''t believe you still have that T-shirt," Marco said when hestepped out onto the stoop. "Mine disintegrated. Do you remember we allskipped school to go to the first showing?" "Yeah. I didn''t even know my mom still had it. I thought she''d thrown it out years ago." "Cool--and thanks for doing this. I told myself I wouldn''t askanybody, but if someone offered I''d take them up on it. Promise me youwon''t think less of me for the way this looks? Our parents gave him thehouse. I tried to help him when I visited, but he didn''t really let me,and he made it clear if I pushed too hard I wouldn''t be welcomeanymore." Stella nodded. "I promise." He handed her a pair of latex gloves and a paper mask to cover hermouth and nose; she considered for the first time how bad it might be.She hadn''t even really registered that he had squeezed through a crackeddoor and greeted her outside. The lawn was manicured, the flower bedsmulched and weeded and ready for the spring that promised to erupt atany moment, if winter ever agreed to depart. The shutters sported freshwhite paint. Which was why she was surprised when Marco cracked the door again toenter, leaving only enough room for her to squeeze through as shefollowed. Something was piled behind the door. Also beside the door, infront of the door, and in every available space in the entranceway. Anarrow path led forward to the kitchen, another into the living room,another upstairs. "Oh," she said. He glanced back at her. "It''s not too late to back out. You didn''t know what you were signing up for." "I didn''t," she admitted. "But it''s okay. Do you have a game plan?" "Dining room, living room, rec room, bedrooms, in that order. I haveno clue how long any room will take, so whatever we get done is fine.Most of what you''ll find is garbage, which can go into bags I''ll take tothe dumpster in the yard. Let me know if you see anything you think Imight care about. We should probably work in the same room, anyhow,since I don''t want either of us dying under a pile. That was all Ithought about while I cleaned a path through the kitchen to get to thedumpster: If I get buried working in here alone, nobody will ever findme." "Dining room it is, then." She tried to inject enthusiasm into her voice, or at least moral support. It was strange seeing a house where she had spent so much timereduced to such a fallen state. She didn''t think she''d have been able tosay where a side table or a bookcase had stood, but there they were, inthe deepest strata, and she remembered.

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