I watched her stack those folders, her face so bright and honest, and I wondered if she’d ever have to be the one to find the truth in a desk drawer. I guess that’s the deal we make, isn’t it. We spend our lives cleaning up the messes left by people we think we know. I reached out and took a stack of papers from her, my fingers brushing the edge of a receipt I hadn’t noticed before.

It was for a new mailbox. Dated three days after the first accident. I didn’t say a word. I just started shredding the pages, one by one, until there was nothing left but confetti. I suppose some things just belong in the trash. Harlan was a man who lived a long time, but looking at that pile of paper, I realized I never really knew him at all. Maybe that was his last gift to me. Or maybe it was his final trick.