Forty-One Thousand Dollars and a Yellow Paper Envelope

“So he built you a door and left the key in it.

He did it wrong.

He did it for a reason, and he did it wrong.

Both of those are true.”

I rubbed my right wrist and watched the telephone poles go by.

“He could have written me one letter,” I said.

“One.

He was in a chair, not in the ground.”