« It is seven in the morning, » I told him.
« What if they came early? »
« Mail is not magic. »
He grinned. « What if mystery mail is? »
I still remember how small he looked standing on his toes by the front window, watching for the mail truck like his whole life depended on it.
Not the cake. Not the presents. Not the friends coming over later. Just that envelope.
And every single year, somehow, it came.
Sometimes it had five dollars. Sometimes ten. Once, when he turned 11, there was a 20, and Adrian acted as if we had just been contacted by royalty.
« Oh, this is serious now, » he said, staring at the bill. « My secret person is moving up in the world. »
I laughed, but the truth was, by then it had gotten under my skin too.
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