“Look, don’t open boxes you can’t close.”

“Why shouldn’t I open it?

What are you afraid is in here?”

“Look, some truths don’t put bread on the table,” she said, looking toward the dark eaves.

I sat on a wooden tool chest and pulled the lid off the box.

Inside were utility receipts, bank envelopes from the credit union, and a brown manila envelope tied with red string.

Across the middle of the envelope, in Paul’s black ink, were the words: Rebecca, Personal.