(no subject)

The problem with the letters from her sister is that Meg has never kept any of them for more than a minute or two. It's very easy to simply have a policy of throwing something away the moment you receive it . . . it's harder when you've kept it for a while, and carried it back from the end of the universe and so on.

Which is why Meg is sitting and staring at an unopened envelope addressed to her in her sister's handwriting.

And trying to decide what to do with it.

She stares at it for what feels like a long time. Well, she stares at it for what is a long time, for staring at an unopened letter, but it feels even longer.

And then, finally, she takes a deep breath, and in the slow, deliberate way she does most things, opens the letter.

It's not long. And it's not what she's expecting. Or maybe it's exactly what she's expecting. Or maybe she has no idea what she's expecting. Meg's not sure.

(Meg's not sure about a lot of things, lately.)

She doesn't spend nearly as much time looking at the letter as she spent looking at the envelope. She reads it twice, and then picks up a pen and draws a line under the phrase I figured I had a good idea. She writes K-- What, exactly, do you figure you know? --M in the margin next to that paragraph, in her textbook perfect script.

And then she refolds the letter, puts it back in the envelope, and tucks the flap into the envelope to keep it closed. She crosses out her own name on the front of the envelope, and writes Dr. Kimberly Ford.

And puts the letter back in her bag, to return to the bar next time she winds up there.