The Letter Had This Week’s Postmark

getting them.

And me.

Me sitting in the parking lot outside physical therapy, forehead on the steering wheel again, because apparently that’s where middle-aged men go when the past comes back with stitches in its side.

Sarah lived.

That’s the clean version.

The actual version was slower. Meaner.

She healed. We all did some of that. She moved into the guest continue reading …