In September 2008, I was still a student, working a seasonal job as a ramp agent at Narita. In the newspapers, Lehman Brothers’ collapse filled every headline; at the airport, you could feel the tension: nervous passengers, delayed flights, abandoned luggage. I was asked to check a suitcase that had been left too long in the transit zone of the Los Angeles–Tokyo flight. The tag was gone, the lock broken. No clothes, no papers—only four thick folders filled with photos. 99 polaroids, numbered in pencil, arranged like a collection. No one ever came for them. I kept them. And ever since, I’ve been looking for the story that ties them together.
