The shoebox was where I’d left it. Nike, size twelve. Greg’s old running shoes. I hadn’t touched it in almost four years.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and opened it.
Twenty-three letters. I counted them. Every envelope addressed to Sam Bennett in Greg’s blocky handwriting, with the return address of the Hudson Valley Recovery Center in Troy. Four of them were open. I had opened those four, back then, and read them standing at the kitchen counter with my hand over my mouth. The other nineteen were still sealed.
I remembered exactly why.
The first letter had come in March, four years ago. Sam was twelve. Greg had written that he was in treatment. He said he was sorry. He said he thought about Sam every day, and he hoped someday Sam would let him come to a game. I read it three times. I almost gave it to Sam. I had it in my hand outside his bedroom door.
