what your father’s letter said,” I said. “Are you ready?”
He looked at the note in my hand.
He set down his coffee. He wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Yes,” he said.
I gave it to him.
He unfolded it slowly. The paper was soft and yellowed, the creases almost worn through. Nile’s handwriting was terrible on a good day, and this hadn’t been a good day. The letters wandered across the page like they were trying to find their way home.
Cullen read it to himself first. Then
