We were sitting around a dining table on the second floor. It was still light out and earlier we had lifted someone in through the window. I riffed through one of the poetry zines that was on the table until I spotted a page that seemed familiar. It was titled “Cut Stones” but the author’s name wasn’t on the page. I flipped to the inside cover and scanned through the list of contributors until I spotted a friend’s name with an extra diacritic. I looked at the front cover which credited the compilation to someone with the last name Zinvado. My aunt started talking about how their parking spot wasn’t big enough for a “Zinvado” car. There was a sinking hollow feeling in my chest.