Merle’s brakes hissed, and the whole trailer shuddered to a halt in the middle of the gravel road. Nobody in the line of pickups moved. Harold walked to the cab window, his best hat shaking in his hand, and asked for his son. Ethan climbed out of the escort truck and stood facing him, jaw tight. “If you came to stop us, Dad, it’s too late.”

Harold didn’t answer. He pulled a yellowed envelope from inside his coat and held it out with both hands. “Your mother wrote this the week before she died,” he said hoarsely. “I have kept it from you for seven years.” Ethan tore it open. His eyes dropped to the first line, and I watched his knees begin to give way. “Marissa,” he whispered, “come here. You need to read this.”#