Staring down at the envelope in your hand, fingers gripping the manilla paper, you let out a heavy sigh. Spring cleaning was supposed to be a little therapeutic—but so far it had been everything but.

Darry was outside, tending to the broken porch he always said he’d try and fix, but never got around to it. The letter, addressed to a Darrel S. Curtis, from the University of Tulsa, dated over a year ago. Unopened. It had been buried in a junk drawer, along with unopened letters of sympathy from when his folks died.

Gripping it tight, you walked outside. You knew what the letter was. Surely he did, too.