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Thomas’s face softened when he saw him.
“Hello, Noah,” he said. “You probably don’t remember me. But I’m here because of a man named Harold Peters.”
“I don’t know any Harold.”
Noah frowned.
So we let Thomas in.
Thomas nodded toward the envelope.
“He knew you. May I come in? It will be easier to explain if you read the letter.”
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Everything in me said Don’t trust this, but I felt Noah’s hand brush my elbow.
“Door stays open,” he murmured.
So we let Thomas in.
Thomas set the envelope on the coffee table like it might explode.
He sat on our sagging thrift-store chair like he’d sat on worse.
Noah and I took the couch.
My knee pressed against his wheel; his hand found mine and stayed there.
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Thomas set the envelope on the coffee table like it might explode.
“I’m an attorney,” he said. “I represented Mr. Peters. Before he died, he gave me very clear instructions about you.”
Noah opened it with shaking hands.
Noah looked baffled. “But I don’t know him.”
“He thought you wouldn’t,” Thomas said. “That’s why he wrote this.”
He slid the envelope closer.
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Noah opened it with shaking hands, unfolded the letter, and began to read aloud.
“Dear Noah,” he read. “You probably don’t remember me. That’s all right. I remember you.”
Years ago, Harold had slipped on the curb and fallen.
He swallowed and kept going.
The letter said that years ago, outside a small grocery store, Harold had slipped on the curb and fallen, dropping his bag.
He hadn’t been seriously hurt, but he couldn’t get up right away.