I sat down on the cold wood and pulled Dad’s handwritten letter out of my coat pocket.

I hadn’t read the second page in Samuel’s office.

The sunlight caught the dark blue ink, showing the sharp, deliberate pressure of Dad’s pen against the heavy paper.

“Elena,” he had written in his clipped style.

“A good lathe operator checks his measurements three times before he cuts the steel.

I spent eight months checking my work because I wanted to be sure before I acted.”

I held the paper against my lap, feeling the cool breeze move through the dry oak leaves above the fence.