He did not look like a stranger; he looked like a memory that had decided to walk.
“He is very polite, Mom,” Iris said.
“Where did you say his family moved from?” I asked.
“Oakhaven,” she said.
The boy reached his car, opened the door, and then did something that made my breath stick in my throat.
He turned back toward us, lifted his right hand, and waved directly at our windshield.
He was not waving at Iris.
His eyes were locked straight on mine, and he did not smile.
The brass key to box forty-two was cold against my thumb at nine the next morning.
The post office was quiet, except for the sound of a broom scraping against the linoleum in the back room behind the counter.
I turned the key, pulled the little glass door open, and reached inside the dark metal cubby.
There was the usual circular for the hardware store and a bill from the electric company with a green notice on the corner.
