I don’t wish I knew less about you.”

She nodded and watched the lights pass the window.

Two weeks later Paige asked me to sit with her while she read the first letter.

Violet had described a little girl who liked to count red cars, hated wool socks, and insisted that her toy rabbit needed a seat at the table.

She had not written about riches or dramatic reunions.

She had written about the smell of rain on the porch and the hope that Lucy was somewhere warm.