a postcard arrived.
There was a photograph on the front.
A desert road beneath an enormous blue sky.
On the back, in small handwriting, were eleven words.
Manuel,
I wondered when you would become less stubborn.
Call me Sunday.
Luis.
Dad read it three times.
Then he sat down.
Mom read it over his shoulder.
“He still sounds like himself,” she said.
Dad laughed.
“I was thinking the same.”
Sunday arrived.
At five minutes before four, Dad was already sitting beside the telephone.
“We can video call,” Derek offered.
“No.”
“
