CHAPTER III.

Ryan.

1.

The letter arrives in the middle of breakfast.

Drop through the mail slot in the front door with a thunk so dense and final it startles

even Bowser out of his slouch.

It lands on the cracked linoleum like a dead bird, heavy and self-important, surrounded by a halo of dust moats kicked up by its landing.

It's the kind of envelope that looks like it should contain a will or a formal declaration of war.

I ignore it for a few seconds, watching a droplet of condensation trace a slow, pathetic path down my glass of orange

juice.

A tiny, perfect world about to end.

I'm deep in the fugue state of a Tuesday morning, listening to the hum of the refrigerator

when mom clears her throat and shoves the letter closer to my side of the table with the end

of her knife.

Mail call, she says, her voice gravely from too much sleep and too much NyQuil.

Looks like a wedding invitation.

I poke it with the tines of my fork, half expecting it to twitch.

The paper is thick and off white, creased at the edges from its journey,

but still managing to look more expensive than anything

else in our house combined.

My name is written on the front in perfect old-fashioned script.

The ink is deep rusty brown.

...