He finally handed me the letter. It was written on lined paper in the same careful handwriting I had studied for years. Elliot, I’ve been sending these from Riverside Correctional Facility since you were three. I earned forty cents an hour in the prison laundry. Every birthday, I saved what I could. My sister mailed them for me so you’d never see the return address.

My hands started shaking. I knew that name at the bottom before I reached it. Darren. Elliot’s father. I flipped to the back of the page, where one last line was written in darker ink, as if he had pressed hard with the pen. I was released on Monday. I’m parked across the street in a blue truck. If you don’t come out, I’ll understand.