But, as Radtke will soon discover, the images she has taken were no random bits of trash. They belonged, in fact, to a young ruins-obsessed photographer who had been struck dead days before by a train, and they had been placed among all that glorious rot by his friends. They had been sprinkled with his ashes. What is it that Radtke has stolen? What belongs to anyone, ever and especially when a place seems to have lost its purpose, or had its purpose rearranged by time?