Getting an anonymous letter is not a pleasant experience. My father was gone when Robin and I got up the next morning. Apparently, he’d called a cab and crept out of the house in the early hours of the morning, and that meant he’d left the front door unlocked. At least our nameless visitor had not tried the door handle and visited us in our sleep. Robin was holding the letter between his thumb and forefinger as though it were a dead mouse when he came back in the house with the newspaper. He’d gone out to move his car into the carport because it was supposed to rain, and also to make sure my father had left it in good order. “Look,” Robin said. He laid the piece of paper on the kitchen counter. I was still in my fuzzy bathrobe, trying to keep down a piece of toast and some cranberry juice. I leaned over the sheet of white computer paper. It had crinkled in the damp air and felt moist to the touch. But the typed words were still legible. They are still alive. Find them. My first reaction was profane.
