Jamal read it twice. He folded it. He put it in the drawer of Rhea's guest-room nightstand and left it there when he drove back to his apartment, as if the letter needed a halfway house before it could live under his own roof.
He did not reply for eleven days. On the twelfth he sent a text to the old number: Got the letter. Silence isn't forever. It's just right now. Don't wait by the phone.
Daryl replied: Understood. Take the time.
Spring again. Another year. Jamal's assignment shifted closer to home. He started volunteering on Saturdays at a youth mentorship program run out of a church basement, teaching teenage boys how to spot for bench press and how to talk about fear without calling it weakness. One of the kids, a lanky fifteen-year-old named Chris with a mouthful of jokes and eyes that scanned exits, reminded Jamal of himself before the dreadlocks grew long. After a session Chris asked, "You got a dad?"
"Had one. He left."
"You mad?"
"Used to be. Now I'm careful about who I trust with the important stuff."
Chris nodded like that was a syllabus he understood. "My mom's got a boyfriend. He ain't bad. He ain't my dad neither."
Jamal handed him a water bottle. "You can hold both those truths. People who tell you you have to pick one are usually selling something."