Randall at sixty-nine, packing his suitcase.
Every version existed at once.
Love did not erase the bedroom.
The bedroom did not erase the love.
I hated that both could be true.
The final paragraph waited.
Wade rose slowly. His knees cracked, and under any other circumstances Randall would have made some insulting comment about old machinery.
Wade put one hand on the back of the chair.
“There’s more than this box,” he said.
“I know.”
“The key.”
“I can see the key.”
“Meryl, before you go there—”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“No warnings. No instructions. No deciding what I can handle.”
His mouth pressed into a line.
I picked up Randall’s wedding ring and the brass key.
I held one in each hand.
The ring was warm now from my skin. The key remained cold.
“Did you know what he wrote at the end?”
“No.”
“You never read this?”
