But once I have what Reid’s sent in my hands—Cecelia pausing briefly in her consultation with a customer to wave me to where it sits on the back worktable—I see that both the labels on the front have been typed, probably by someone who works for Reid. I ignore the disappointment I feel and tear open the package—it’s slim but stiff, nothing more than a standard, legal-size envelope, the kind of thing a contract comes in. So probably it is annoying I-didn’t-ask-for-this business advice. Well, at least if Cecelia comes back, my lie will be convincing.

Except it’s not business advice.

It’s a letter. A4, white, nothing special, though thicker than average printer paper.

And it’s handwritten.

it begins, and for a second I can’t get beyond those two words. Despite my Masterpiece Theatre imaginings, Reid doesn’t write in some kind of eighteenth-century cursive; instead, like most people these days, he has a sort of half-print, half-script style—the M of my name separate from the e, but the e joined to the g with a smooth garland. The letters are close together, but the words themselves are given room to breathe—wide, even kernings that make me think of the way Reid’s jaw unclenched outside that crowded scaffold sidewalk.

Dark black ink. Even pressure. A rightward slant, a low vertical. I resist the urge to trace it with my finger. I force myself to read on.

I apologize for the questions I asked you on Wednesday.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m not the most natural conversationalist, and I was nervous. I relied on discussing matters I know more about. Matters I know more about than art, at least. This is no excuse for what bad company I was.

Yesterday morning I went back to the building we got stuck on. Before 7 a.m., it’s different, as I’m sure you know.

Traffic noise, construction noise, people noise: It’s all still there, but quieter, which is why I should not have suggested meeting when we did. The light wasn’t great, and the scaffolding is still there, so I still couldn’t see the letters, but

I made a trip somewhere else after work and found what

I’ve enclosed here. I hope it helps.

For whatever it’s worth, I enjoyed watching you work. I wish you every success.

Reid Sutherland

I stare at what he’s written for a long time, ignoring for now whatever it is he’s enclosed. I’m not looking for a code, because I know now Reid wouldn’t leave one. If he asks, he wants to know. If he says something, he means it. If he writes to you, he’s written exactly what he wants you to know.