The man held up the envelope by its corner and said, slowly, for there were few times in his life he would get to say this, “The Onondaga Nation asked me to give this to you.”

There were thumbprints across the back, and the whole affair was wrinkled and creased as if it had ridden over many waterfalls in a barrel. The envelope read: “To the 25-year-old child at St. George Reef Lighthouse.” The age had been crossed out and rewritten several times—22, 23, and finally 25.

The picture show might have started. He could read this on the way. Still, he opened it while standing in the Bureau anteroom, with the odd man wearing the star-spangled hat sitting on his stool.

Inside was a letter wrapped around a second envelope. The hand was careful, like that of a person copying out Bible verses. There wasn’t a smudge, and each letter seemed to have been written individually, a separate continent.

My name is Nellie Hill. I knew a man named Percy Duncan. For years, he told about a woman lighthouse keeper and how they had a child. This equals he is your father. He died because of the Kaiser (long story). He wrote you this note. I have carried it on every trip west since. Now I know about the Bureau of Lighthouses, I am giving it to you. I have not read it. It is not my business. I hope it answers your questions and tells you where you came from.

Sincerely yours

Nellie Hill

(Onondaga, Syracuse, NY, USA)

P.S. Your father toured in a Wild West show, played for famous people, saw the world, etc., etc.

Lee read the letter through, and it dropped to the floor. He picked it up, but it almost slid through his fingers again. The man who had helped him had returned to the window, where Barney was parked, watching Lee’s every move with interest. Lee wanted to ask questions, but couldn’t for the life of him determine what they were.

He reread the letter, which went blurry on him. His father had a name. It was Percy Duncan. The many nights of slow drifting into sleep, when he had imagined he had been created from mud. He felt in his stomach as if he was going to be sick. The man who had left. Or? The man who had an excellent explanation for leaving. Or? That distant feeling, If only I am good enough, he’ll be here when I wake up.

He saw himself, in silver nitrate, reading the letter and blinking away tears. There was musical accompaniment. Deep in his heart he knew he was the type of person who had things like this happen: shouts from the grave, long-secret parents, reprieves from the governor, maps tattooed on convicts’ hands.