“Then it might . . .” Two terrible thoughts hit me at once. Either Delia has stolen the letter as payback for the slap and plans to read it out loud to anyone who’ll listen, or something far, far worse has happened.

I hurry outside, sick with fear. Socks the cat sleeps in the last rays of sunlight to fall across the front stairs of Mrs. Thomas’s cement-brick house. I knock, and, on the off chance that Jesus is in the vicinity, I pray. Please let the letter be inside and propped against the endless row of wedding photos.

Socks yawns and stretches out, a hundred miles from care.

“Ah, Adele.” Mrs. Thomas smiles to see me at the door—still in her soft, dreamy mood. “You came about the letter?”

“Yes.” I shift from right foot to left foot. “That’s correct.”

“It was a rush, but I got it into the Lord Have Mercy mailbag. It will be in Manzini this evening, and your mother will get it tomorrow or the next day.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder.

I am speechless.

“It’s good that you write to your mother, Adele. Keeping contact with the outside world is important. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear from you.”

I hold back the bad words burning on my tongue. Stupid. Idiot. You had no right. You know the rules. Hands off other people’s stuff. Instead, I shape my mouth into a smile. It’s almost mid-February, and in eight weeks, I’ll go home for the holidays. From what I hear, Mrs. Thomas leaves the school only during the Christmas break. She’s stuck at Keziah from late January to mid-December, and that fact melts my anger away. I’m sorry for her. I take a big breath in.

“Thank you for posting the letter, Mrs. Thomas. Mother will be pleased.”

“No trouble, Adele. No trouble at all.”

Each footfall on her stairs is like a hammer that echoes across Swaziland, all the way to my mother, who will read the letter and think I am insane.

Lottie stands on the other side of the dry lavender hedge with a startled expression. She’s guessed what happened.

“She was trying to help,” she says of Mrs. Thomas’s backward kindness. “What was in the letter?”

“The truth.”

“Oh.” Lottie says. Then, “Ohh . . .”

“Exactly,” I say.

• • •

What to do? What to do? The question runs circles inside my head until my brain is dizzy. I list the facts to try and calm my mind: Mrs. Thomas posted the letter. Fact. The letter is gone, and there’s no stopping it. Fact. There is nothing I can do to change the situation. Fact. My mind, however, refuses to listen. My mind insists that there must be a way to fix the situation.

“Here. Take this.” Lottie reaches over the side of her cot and offers me her dreidel. “Spin it and watch the symbols go around. Don’t think. Just watch.”