Kevin opened the envelope at the kitchen table, and the color left his face before he finished the first line. “W and M Bait and Tackle,” he read slowly. “Owner, Marjorie Quill.” Priscilla leaned over his shoulder and laughed once, nervously, then stopped. “That is a typo,” she said. I sipped my coffee and said nothing. Kevin looked up, and his voice came out small. “Mom?”

Outside, my cab honked softly. I stood, lifted my suitcase, and finally said the sentence I had saved for eight months. Then Priscilla grabbed the letter and read the last paragraph aloud, and her hands began to shake, because the terms inside held something neither of them expected. Kevin whispered, “Mom, what does the second page mean?”