Did I imagine this?
Inside: a single page. Torn from a route book.
A long pause. The cicadas go quiet.
Almost seventeen.
(without looking up) You again. Every day, same step. Don’t you have friends?
You’re going to melt in that hoodie.
The place where letters are sorted before final delivery. Abandoned after 4 PM. They sit on the stone ledge. The red mailbox beside them is locked.
