“Will you tell me what it says?”

“If it concerns you, yes.

I will tell you what I can.”

She considered that answer, then let go of my hand.

I sat beside her until her eyes closed and her breathing settled into the slow rhythm I knew from a hundred ordinary nights.

In the kitchen, I placed the cream envelope on the table.

My keys lay beside it, and the grocery receipt from that afternoon stuck out from under a folded newspaper.

The house was quiet enough for me to hear the refrigerator start.