Wen found the dress at a consignment shop in Capitol Hill.
Not the kind of consignment shop that pretends to be a boutique — the kind with fluorescent lighting and racks organized by color and a woman behind the register reading a paperback who didn't look up when we walked in. The dress was black. Floor-length. A neckline that sat across my collarbones like a sentence I hadn't finished. No label I recognized. No price that required a conversation.
"That's the one," Wen said. She'd said that about eleven dresses in the last two hours. This time she was right.
