At his funeral, his attorney had drawn me aside and pressed into my hands a small box of dark mahogany, with a heavy silver clasp.

“Your grandfather was very specific,” the man had murmured.

“Only you were to receive this.

No one else.” And Savannah, of course, had seen it, and laughed.

“What’s in it?” she had said, loud enough for the other mourners.

“His old rusty fishing hooks?” I had held it against me and said nothing, and I had taken it home, and I had not opened it.