"Fast forward," he wrote. Scotty had his own box now. It was a suggestion Benny had made after, after the falling summer.
"I'm better now, I promise." He continued on the yellow stationary his mother had sent last month. "I can't stop thinking about you, and everything you've done."
Scotty put the pen down. He had graduated from the crayon two months ago. He pressed just enough folds into the paper to slide it into the matching envelope and tossed it into the box of unsent letters. Maybe someday, Benny would find letters he liked, that made him cry.
