The high school parking lot was a sea of yellow buses and rusted sedans when I pulled the Buick into the visitor space at three.
Iris was already waiting by the flagpole, her backpack slung over one shoulder.
She was talking to a tall boy who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, military style.
Even from fifty yards away, I could see the boy was wearing a pressed blue shirt with the collar turned down perfectly.
“That is him,” Iris said as she climbed into the passenger seat, pointing through the windshield.
“The one in the blue shirt?” I asked.
“That is Ryan,” she said, her voice rising with that nervous high pitch.
She started twirling her hair again, her eyes fixed on him as he walked toward a clean white sedan.
The boy turned his head toward our Buick, his expression measured and calm.
His face was Arthur’s face from twenty years ago, the same high cheekbones and the same slight dip in the chin.
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.
Behind them sat a thick manila envelope, completely blank.
No stamp, no postmark, and no name written across the front.
I stood there in the lobby, the smell of damp coats and old paper around me, and slid my finger under the metal clasp of the envelope.
I pulled out a single sheet of paper that had been folded twice.
It was a photocopy of the notarized custody agreement from April 2008.
My own signature looked back at me from the bottom of the page, written in the dark blue ink I used to favor before everything fell apart.
The notary seal from the county courthouse was a gray circle in the upper corner, slightly faded from the copier machine.
Mr. Henderson, the postmaster, looked up from his sorting tray behind the counter, his reading glasses slipping down his nose.
“Morning, Nora,” he said. “Iris ready for the big dance?”
“Almost,” I said, slipping the paper back into the envelope. “She is still looking for a dress.”
