It came in March, in Grant’s handwriting, forwarded from the old address, and it’s eight pages, and I know that because I held it up to the light and counted the folds.

I haven’t opened it. My mother thinks I should.

Kit Boone, when I mentioned it, said that in her professional opinion I should put it in a safe deposit box and in her personal opinion I should burn it, and that I was welcome to bill her for the confusion.

Nolan knows it’s there.

He asked once, in the fall, whether I was going to read it, and I said not yet, and he said okay, and then, from the doorway, on his way out:

“He’s going to want something.”