“I’m sorry.”
I looked at the Winter Box lid, my father’s handwriting in my memory, Kyle’s marker on his bin, the ripple effect of a simple act of preparation.
“Me too,” I said. “But he left me something.”
“What?”
“The proof,” I said, my voice steady now. “That love can be practical. That loyalty deserves competence. That being prepared isn’t paranoia—it’s continue reading …
