He was 23. Daniel watched Frank. Samuel got Tom out first. Frank was still inside when another section came down. Laura looked at her father, his left knee.
Frank stared at the floor. "Samuel came back," he said. Norah nodded. "He did," Daniel asked. "Then why was he blamed?"
Frank answered. "Because the report needed a decision attached to a name, and he gave them his." "Yes," Norah looked at Daniel. "Tom had a pregnant wife." Samuel said one terrible night shouldn't destroy his life.
Laura looked at Frank and you agreed. At first, Norah's expression sharpened. Then people started talking. Samuel became the man who had abandoned another firefighter inside. Frank rubbed one hand over his knee.
I told him it would pass. "It didn't," Norah said. Daniels voice lowered. "So he left." Frank nodded.
"He left, and you let him. I was angry at him, at everything." Norah sighed. Samuel thought leaving would protect Tom. Frank thought staying quiet would protect Samuel from more attention.
Laura looked at both men, and neither of you asked what the other needed. Frank glanced at her. That observation sounds expensive. $20. Daniel almost smiled.
Norah pointed toward the wooden box. There's a letter in there, isn't there? Yes. Read it. It's addressed to Frank.
Frank looked at Daniel, then read it to me. Daniel did not move. His fingers rested on the lid. Laura had seen him joke through airport delays, Frank's questions, bad coffee, and old accusations. Now he could not open a piece of paper.
Frank noticed, "How long have you had that box?" "8 months," Norah blinked. "You waited 8 months?" "Yes." Frank leaned back.
"So we're all cowards on a schedule." Daniel laughed once, small, unwilling, but real. They finished setting up without opening the letter. Frank and Nora argued about table placement. Daniel fixed a crooked banner.
Laura watched him and pretended she was checking chairs. Later, outside under the awning, rain tapped the parking lot. Laura joined him. You waited 8 months. He nodded.
Why? Daniel looked through the glass doors at the box inside. When Megan died, I had to empty her house. Laura said nothing. She kept everything.
Receipts, photographs, letters, things I'd forgotten existed. His hands slipped into his coat pockets. Every box could change something I remembered about her, about us. The answer came quietly. We were separated when she got sick.
By then, I had my version of the marriage. She probably had hers. He looked toward the rain. I learned objects can be dangerous after you've made peace with a story. Laura understood.
So your father's box stayed closed for 8 months. Daniel gave a faint smile. Apparently avoidance is hereditary, too. Laura leaned against the brick wall. Sometimes the dead leave you answers after you've built a life around the questions.
Daniel looked at her. That sounded suspiciously wise. I'm having an unusual morning. She held out the half-dollar. Flip it for what?