“My hands have been so stiff tonight,” Emily muttered, her precise, academic voice sounding thin in the quiet room.
“The cold damp from the marsh always makes my knuckles ache like this, Dad.”
“It is the same ache I had last winter,” she said.
“The doctor said it was just growing pains, but it feels deeper than that.”
“We will get the records from the clinic,” I said.
“But look at the stitching inside that hem,” Emily said, pointing to the blue cotton thread that had been used to seal the small corner pocket.
“This was not a mistake. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make sure this stayed with the towel.”
“They made a hidden compartment,” she added.
“Let us see the other one,” Grace said, her short words coming in a rapid rush.
She pushed the pink towel toward my hands.
“Cut the pink one, Dad.”
I picked up the pink towel, the cotton feeling just as stiff as the white.
It was preserved by the dry air of the linen closet but still holding the faint, musty scent of old wood.
I turned the towel over, searching the hem for the same double-stitching near the corner.
“There,” Emily said, her finger pointing to the bottom seam.
“The thread changes color right at the corner, just like the other one.”
I aligned the shears with the blue thread.
The metal blades chewed through the fabric, the sound surprisingly loud in the midnight quiet of the house.
“Be careful,” Grace whispered.
I parted the cut fabric with my thumb, working my fingers into the small gap.
This time, there was no clink of metal against the table.
My fingers brushed against something soft and dry, wedged deep into the corner fold.
Using a pair of kitchen tweezers from the drawer, I slowly drew out a small, folded rectangle of paper.
It was yellowed at the edges, the texture brittle like old parchment.
It had been folded so tightly that the creases were nearly white.
“Is it a note?” Grace asked, leaning forward.
“It is a document,” Emily said, her eyes scanning the small print as I laid the paper flat on the table.
“Look at the typed header.”
I smoothed the creases with the side of my thumb.
The top right corner had been torn away, leaving a jagged edge where a name or a signature should have been.
“Savannah General Clinic,” I read aloud.
“There is a code at the bottom,” Emily said, her finger tracing the typed letters.
“Discharge code four-twelve-B. And look at the date.”
The date was October twelfth, eighteen years ago, printed in faded blue ink that had bled slightly into the soft paper.
“That was three days before you found us on the beach,” Grace said, her finger tapping her palm.
