“Asking about me?” Wunder said, confused.

“I’ve been trying to tell you—I deliver her paper. She’s always out on her porch. I keep trying to go earlier and earlier so I don’t have to see her. Today I went at 5:00 a.m., but she was already out there! I mean, it was dark and everything!”

“Get to the point, David,” Faye said.

“She—she asked about Wunder,” Davy said. “The day the obituary—after your sister was in the paper, Wunder. She asked me if I was your friend, and she asked if you believed in miracles. And then she had me bring an envelope to the town hall. I don’t know what it was.”

“For the memorial stone!” Faye shrieked.

Wunder was trying to understand what Davy was telling him, but ghosts and angels and demons and goblins were running all around him and the gym was so loud and suddenly darker again.

“You deliver the paper there?” he asked. “Since when?”

“Maybe a month,” Davy said.

“When exactly?” Faye demanded.

Davy looked uncomfortable. “The day after—after Wunder’s sister—after she … died.”

“She showed up the day after Wundie’s sister died?” Faye shouted.

“I—I guess so,” Davy said, bewildered. “That’s the first day I delivered her paper, anyway. And since then, she’s had me deliver a million letters. And look”—he pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his gray sweatpants—“when I brought her the paper this morning, she gave me this one. It’s for my mother.”

It was a cream-colored envelope with a black wax seal. And scrawled across the front: Tabitha Baum.

For weeks, Wunder and Faye had delivered letters that they had not opened. They had waited for their own. For his part, Wunder had been afraid to know what was inside, afraid to solve the mystery, and it seemed like Faye must have felt that way too, because she hadn’t pushed him.

But this new information from Davy seemed to be her tipping point.

“Open it!” she screamed.

Davy was so startled that he fell backward into the punch-and-snack table. His paper-filled trash bag suit crinkled and crunched. Faye snatched the envelope.

“That’s my mother’s!” Davy protested, knocking over a bowl of chips in his effort to right himself. But Faye was already ripping it open.

Inside was a piece of the same worn paper folded into thirds that everyone else had received. Wunder and Davy gathered around Faye as she unfolded it. There, in the same sprawling black handwriting, were the words:

“Behold! I tell you a miracle. We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed.”

And under it:

Come to the highest point of Branch Hill Cemetery at sunrise on the second of November. In this place of remembrance and love, we will experience miracles, and we will all be changed. Together.

“The cemetery?” Davy asked. “What does it have to do with my mom?”

Wunder shook his head, eyes on the letter. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess because she’s a miracle.”