“A veterinarian. But only to whales.” She lets out a tiny embarrassed laugh. “I don’t know why.”

“What about Sunil?”

“When he was ten, he was obsessed with skateboarding. This one time, he broke his ankle after flying off a ramp at the end of our driveway. He loved basketball, too, though. I remember him saying he would either skateboard professionally or make it in the nba. Get a scholarship and everything.”

“Did he?”

“No, he outgrew skateboarding. But he did play basketball in high school. Then he got into computers and studied programming. Nothing ever turns out the way we think, I guess. How about you and Sequoia?”

“She always loved to draw. I think she wanted to be a teacher like our parents. I was always changing my mind. But I remember wanting to travel and see the world. I guess that hasn’t changed.”

Kavita shifts off her knees and sits cross-legged and listens to the call and response of chickadees. Somewhere behind them, she hears another faint and distant rumble in the sky, the low rattling of raindrops. As she stares at the tackle box, she wonders about its contents. Maybe a mixed tape? A She-Ra doll? A copy of MAD magazine?

“Enough of this stalling,” he says as he wrenches open the rusted latch. Slowly, he lifts the lid, which screeches with old age.

Kavita keeps her eyes fixed on the clover patch. Somehow looking into the box feels voyeuristic, as though she is about to steel a glimpse of Sequoia’s diary.

“Look at this old stuff.” He pulls out a concert ticket. “About a month before we buried the capsule, Sequoia dragged me to see Corey Hart. I remember hating every minute of it. But it was our first concert.”

Kavita blinks at the ticket stub. She remembers wanting to go to that same concert but being too young. “Sunglasses at Night” plays in her head.

Sensing it’s all right to look, Kavita peers inside the capsule. She sees a Rubik’s cube, a cassette tape, a red egg of Silly Putty, hockey cards, and the white edge of a Polaroid picture. The photograph reminds her of the one Hawthorn asked her to bring of Sunil, if she wanted to, which she has tucked away in the pocket of her jean jacket. As Hawthorn shifts the contents of the box around, she sees two blue envelopes, and winces. Letters, she thinks.

“I’m surprised everything’s so well preserved,” she says, watching his expression. She knows he must have seen the letters by now, too. “That box must’ve been airtight.”

“No water damage,” he mutters. He reaches for the envelopes. “We didn’t write letters to ourselves. We wrote letters to each other.”

She rests one hand on his knee and squeezes.

“I’m not sure I can do this.”

“You don’t have to.”