I took the bus.
It honestly didn’t bother me much.
You become good at not wanting things when you know exactly what they cost.
On the morning I turned 17, Ray knocked on my bedroom door at seven.
“You’re up.”
“You woke me.”
“Same thing.”
He carried a rectangular wooden box.
It wasn’t flawless.
One corner was slightly higher than the others, and I could tell he’d sanded away a mistake near the latch.
Still, the wood was dark and smooth, with my initials burned into the lid.
“J.M.”
“You made this?”
“In the garage.”
“That’s what you’ve been doing out there?”
“For about six weeks.”
I opened it.
Inside was a pile of bank statements tied together with string.
My college account.
I looked at him.
“Mom told me about this.”
“Your mother has never successfully kept a secret.”
Then I spotted handwriting on the back of the top statement.
