I read it twice.
Stopped writing?
Tommy said the three of them had remained in contact.
Not constantly, but enough.
Christmas cards. Phone calls. Eventually emails.
And apparently my name had never disappeared from their conversations.
For years, they'd wondered what they'd done to make me cut them out of my life.
My stomach tightened.
I opened the second box. Inside was a cheap silver compass. Ray had carried it everywhere when we were teenagers, despite being incapable of reading it properly. Beneath it was a thick bundle of paper tied with string.
Letters.
The first was dated August 1971.
"Dear Harold,"
"Germany is colder than I expected. Tommy says Australia is too hot, so between us we chose badly."
I smiled, then I saw the final paragraph.
"You haven't answered my last two letters. Everything okay?"
The next letter was from October.
Then December.
Then March 1972.
"Harold,"
"If you're angry about something, tell me. Nick hasn't heard from you either. Tommy thinks maybe your father is keeping you busy at the store."
