I walked out to the metal mailbox at the end of our driveway.

The cold air stung my cheeks.

Inside was a thick cream-colored envelope with a Colorado postmark.

The return address printed in the corner matched the one I had written to just two days earlier.

I traced the raised lettering of the address, wondering what kind of man answered this quickly.

I carried the envelope into the kitchen and slid my thumb under the flap.

The paper was heavy and expensive, the kind downtown law firms use.