Leni couldn’t tell Mama how angry she was, the sharp, tiny teeth that gnawed at her all the time, shredding a little more of her away every time she looked at her father. She pushed back from the table and went to the loft to write to Matthew, trying not to think about her mother sitting down there all alone.

*   *   *

Dear Matthew,

I am trying not to lose hope, but you know how hard it has always been for me. Hope, I mean. It’s been four days since I last saw you. It feels like forever.

It’s funny, now that hope has become so slippery and unreliable, I realize that all those years, when I was a kid thinking I didn’t believe in hope, I was actually living on it. Mama fed me a steady diet of he’s trying and I lapped it up like a terrier. Every day I believed her. When he smiled at me or gave me a sweater or asked me how my day was, I thought, See? He cares. Even after I saw him hit her for the first time, I still let her define the world for me.

Now it is all gone.

Maybe he’s sick. Maybe Vietnam broke him. And maybe those are all excuses set at the feet of a man who is just rotting from the inside.

I don’t know anymore and as much as I try, I can’t care.

I have no hope left for him. The only hope I can hold on to is for you. For us.

I’m still here.

Chapter Twenty-Three

TWENTY-THREE

Dear Admissions Director:

University of Alaska, Anchorage.

I am very sorry to say that I will not be able to attend classes at the University this quarter.

I am hopeful—although doubtful—that winter quarter will see a change in my circumstances.

I will be forever grateful for my acceptance and hope that another lucky student can take my spot.

Sincerely,

Lenora Allbright

In September, cold winds roared across the peninsula. Darkness began its slow, relentless march across the land. By October, the moment that was autumn in Alaska had passed. Every night, at seven P.M., Leni sat close to the radio, the volume cranked high, static popping, listening for Mr. Walker’s voice, waiting for news on Matthew. But week after week, there was no improvement.

In November, the precipitation turned to snow, light at first, goose down fluttering from white skies. The muddy ground froze, turned hard as granite, slippery, but soon a layer of white lay over everything, a new beginning of sorts, a camouflage of beauty over whatever lay hidden beneath.

And still Matthew wasn’t Matthew.