His seed-company cap lay on the passenger side.
For four months, I’d avoided touching anything on that side of the truck.
It still felt like Dad’s space.
But now I reached beneath the seat.
I pulled out a heavy chain.
Then jumper cables.
A small coffee can filled with spare pins.
And finally, a zippered bank deposit bag.
I opened it.
Inside was the green notebook.
I smiled faintly.
Of course Dad had put it there.
But something else was inside.
A plain white envelope.
My name was written across the front in Dad’s unmistakable block handwriting.
Wade Kucera.
Our road.
Elba, Nebraska.
There was even a stamp attached.
But the envelope had never been mailed.
I stared at it.
Then sat on the truck’s running board and carefully opened it with my pocketknife.
Inside was a single sheet torn from a yellow legal pad.
The letter was dated November ninth.
