Chapter 10 - What The Last Page Requires
The folder had gotten warm from our hands. I could feel it when I lifted the third page by the corner and set it face-down to the left of the folder, next to the stack Frank had been building without really meaning to.
Underneath it was the last page. Thicker paper. Not a copy.
It was instructions. A half page of plain block text and then boxes at the bottom. I didn't read it out loud right away. I ran my thumb down the margin and felt the edge catch where someone had paper-clipped something there before and taken it off.
"Okay," I said. "This one's different. This is telling you what to do."
Frank leaned in. He still hadn't put his glasses back on, but he reached for the page anyway and pulled it a little toward himself, squinting.
"Let me see that return address," he said.
I slid it so we could both see. He bent low over the table, his nose almost to the paper, and read slowly.
"Department of the Army," he said. "Office of... it says respond to Fort Drum. With attention to that captain." He tapped the line. "And here. Signature required. Printed name, signature, date. Must be received no later than—" He stopped and looked up at Daniel. "You tell them the date. I can't make out that print."
Daniel hadn't moved from where he stood. His hands were at his sides now, out of his pockets.
"Friday," he said. "Next Friday. Ten days from the date on the letter."
Josh grabbed one of the grocery notepads by the phone. The one with the magnet shaped like an apple. He tore off the top sheet with the old shopping list and turned it over.
"Say it again," he said. "Exact."
"June 14th," Daniel said. "By 1700 hours. Five p.m."
Josh wrote it in big numbers. JUNE 14 - 5 PM. Then underneath, smaller: response must be received.
I kept reading the paragraph above the boxes while they talked. My lips moved. I couldn't help it.
It said he had the right to respond in writing. It said he could include any additional information or explanation. It said if he chose not to respond, the decision would be made on the available record.
"What does that mean, 'available record'?" I asked. "That sounds like—"
"It means what they have is what they go with," Daniel said. "If I don't write anything, they decide without my side."
The kitchen got very quiet. The refrigerator hummed and clicked off. Outside, a car went past slow on our street and didn't stop.
Frank sat back. "So silence equals acceptance," he said. "That's what they're telling you. You don't answer, you're agreeing to whatever that second page said."
Daniel nodded once. "Yes, sir. If I do nothing, it goes forward as written. It stays in my file. It follows me to the next unit. To promotion. To everything."
I looked at the signature box again. Empty. Just lines waiting.
"Did that captain tell you this when he gave it to you?" I asked.
"He said read it with family," Daniel said. "He said don't wait. He said most guys get in more trouble by ignoring the deadline than by what was in the packet to start with."
Josh held up what he'd written. "I'm not taking a picture of any of this," he said. "You said no pictures." He looked at Daniel for confirmation. "But can I put this on the fridge? So we see it?"
Daniel hesitated, then nodded.
Josh stood and put the note under a magnet shaped like a ladybug, centered on the refrigerator door at eye level. JUNE 14 - 5 PM. It looked too small there, next to a coupon and a picture Josh had drawn in third grade.
I stared at it, then back down at the last page under my hand. Ten days. A written response. A signature.
Frank put his hand flat on the table beside the folder, not touching the papers.
May you like
"Then we don't have ten days," he said. "We have today to decide what kind of answer you're giving them."
None of us picked up the page. We just sat around it, with that date on the fridge ticking behind us louder than any clock.
