At some point two is an answer, Ivan.”

She never wrote a third.

I have thought about that eight-month-old boy and that second letter more than almost anything else.

Because if that piece of mail had been put in the correct pigeonhole in a building in Kentucky, I would have read it in the March, and I would have been on a plane inside a week, and every one of the following seven years would have been different.

Not because I was a good man.