Chapter 2 - Fourteen Letters
Wade's head came up slow, like he wasn't sure the words had been aimed at him.
I waved him over.
He came down the steps with his hands still in his pockets.
My father hadn't budged. He was still holding the keys out, still smiling, but something behind his eyes had gone tight.
"Son," he said. "Don't embarrass yourself out here."
I didn't look at him. "Wade. Go grab it. Off the table."
Wade held my eyes for a second. Then he went inside.
My father let out a short laugh through his nose. "Whatever that man cobbled together in his garage — it's not a car. You understand that, right?"
"No," I said. "It's not a car."
Wade came back out carrying it in both hands, careful, like it might come apart.
A wooden box. Hand-built. Sanded down until it was smooth as glass, with my initials cut into the lid.
Inside were all the letters my mother had written to me on my birthday every year and never sent. She'd handed the stack to Wade two years back, when she got sick the first time, and told him to keep them somewhere safe.
He'd found them. He'd built the box. He'd put them in order, oldest to newest.
Fourteen letters. One for every year my father was gone.
My father stared at the thing in Wade's hands. "That's — that's a box. That's literally just a box."
Wade didn't answer him. He set it in my hands and stepped back.
I held it and finally looked my father dead in the eye.
"She almost didn't make it last winter," I said. "Where were you?"
May you like
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
And then Mom appeared in the doorway — and the look on her face told me she'd heard every word of it.
