Chapter 2 - Hands That Would Not Turn The Page
The folder stayed open under my hands, and I didn't lift them right away. The paper was warm from the kitchen light and stiff at the edges, the kind of stock that doesn't bend easy. Daniel's boots hadn't moved on the linoleum. I could hear the refrigerator humming behind us and the faint tick of the clock over the stove. Nobody reached for coffee.
I made myself look down. The top page had a letterhead across it in dark block print, an office name and an address I didn't recognize, and under that a date from last week typed clean and straight. Below that, his name. Daniel. Last name and all, spelled right, with a string of numbers after it. My thumb was right next to it. I didn't move my thumb.
That was when I knew it wasn't routine paperwork. Not a reenlistment form or a travel voucher or something he needed Frank to co-sign. You don't type a name like that unless it's official and it matters who reads it. My breath caught in a way I tried not to let them hear.
Frank stared at the same spot. His glasses were in his right hand, folded shut, the earpieces pressed into his palm. I waited for him to put them back on. He always did that little tilt of his head when he was going to read something fine. Instead he set them down on the table to the left of the folder with a soft click. He laid them down flat, arms closed, like he was done with them.
"Frank," I said, quiet. I slid the folder a half inch toward him so the light hit it better. "Can you—"
He didn't pick the glasses back up. He kept his hands on the edge of the table, fingers curled under the wood. He shook his head once, just enough for me to see. It wasn't that he couldn't read it. He wouldn't.
Behind us the chair creaked. Josh shifted his weight and leaned in closer between our shoulders, his hoodie brushing my cardigan. I could feel the heat off him. He'd been quiet since Daniel came in, just watching, but now his eyes were moving fast over the top lines. I saw his mouth tighten when he got to Daniel's name. He put one hand on the back of Frank's chair to steady himself and leaned lower.
"What does that mean?" he whispered, not really to anyone. "That first part."
I didn't answer him because I didn't know yet, and I didn't want to guess out loud and be wrong. The words under the letterhead were short and formal, the kind of language that doesn't sound like any person talking. I read the first two lines twice. Date. Subject line. Daniel's name again. My eyes kept sliding back to his name like it would change if I looked away.
Daniel stayed where he was at the side of the table. I could see his hands out of the corner of my eye, hanging straight at his sides, his right thumb rubbing slow against his pant seam. He wasn't looking at the paper anymore. He was looking at Frank. Waiting to see if Frank would pick it up. When Frank didn't, Daniel's jaw moved, but he didn't speak. He didn't explain or step forward or reach to turn the page for us.
The overhead light buzzed faintly. The flag decoration by the window didn't move. I pressed my palm flatter on the folder to keep the cover from flipping shut, and the paper crinkled under my skin.
I looked at Frank again. "You need to read this with me," I said.
May you like
He glanced at his glasses on the table, then back at the page, his eyes narrowing like he was trying to make the print bigger by will. "You read it," he said. His voice was low. "Just — you tell me what it says."
Josh's hand tightened on the chair. Daniel didn't move. And I understood, all at once and without anyone saying it, that these pages were about Daniel in some official way, and that Frank had already decided he didn't want to be the one to say it out loud.
