Don't ask. Don't tell. No matter where you go, there will be two things: the questions, and the dust reminding you not to ask them. This is what you get in the end: mothballs and dead insects from that season of summer so long ago. Like the unfinished bathroom in my parents' room, the one with a toilet, a sink with a shattered pipe, and as much space as my high school's broom closet. There is the dust, carpet-thick, luxurious, bought at prices that would make an experienced shopper stagger. It silences.

It says that the solution is never to ask the question.

I don't believe it.