She slid her hand under her pillow, felt around for a second, and drew out a long, heavy brown envelope sealed with three strips of yellowed tape.

She reached it across the white cotton sheet to me.

“What’s this, Margaret?” I asked, looking at the blank brown paper.

“You keep hold of it,” she said.

“Don’t open it until after I’m gone.”

“Margaret,” I started, setting the soup bowl on the bedside table.

“No arguing, Tommy,” she cut in, her voice firming up in spite of how tired she was.

“Keep it in your coat pocket.