It was not a fortune. But to Roy, a man who worked forty hours a week in the heat of the paper machine for three dollars an hour when we started, it was a mountain of money.

He had protected it for twenty-four years so I could see the water.

We are leaving next Tuesday. I have already packed my old suitcase, the one with the broken latch that Roy fixed with wire in 1991.

I still sit in his green chair by the window every evening. The shoebox is empty now, sitting on the bottom shelf of the closet with the lid off.

I thought I would feel lost when the letters were gone. I thought the silence would be too heavy to carry.

But it is not. The last letter is tucked into my purse, right next to the train ticket.

Mostly I just look out at the tomato plants and think about how he was right. I did make it to 90. And he is still betting on me.