Rocks. Feathers. Strings. Buttons. Then, every night before going to sleep, I grab Mama’s letter, try to sound out some words, and then put it back in the box to keep it safe. There’s not a day or night that I don’t look at it. And not a day or night passes that I don’t worry about Anna. And barely a moment passes that I’m not glued to the radio, listening for Daddy’s songs. “I never thought I’d be a fan of country music,” Mr. Chandler says one morning, slipping in behind me and reaching to turn the volume down on the radio. “But I can see why you like it, Sara.” “Daddy can make his guitar sound like someone singing,” I tell him. “You don’t even need words to know what it says. Bet you can’t play guitar.” I look at him closely, but his face doesn’t give anything away. “Nope. Can’t play guitar. Can’t sing. Have two left feet when it comes to dancing, but I can juggle. Does that count?” “I guess.” I never saw anyone juggle before. He smiles and picks up a glass apple from Mrs.
