At 30, I found myself living in San Francisco, where the summer fog blows inland off the ocean and the landscape changes moment to moment. Amidst this ever-changing sea of fog, I was struggling to remember my brother Kris. My memories appeared and disappeared like the fog that surrounded me. Kris hanged himself when he was sixteen and I was thirteen, in the basement of our childhood home in Colorado. Now, in California, I was searching my memory and the few remaining traces of his life for some semblance of meaning.