I read the first line twice.
Larry’s letter had arrived six days after his funeral, in a thick white envelope covered in the shaky handwriting I’d seen on his hospice forms. The postmark was dated the day before he died.
Larry’s letter had arrived six days after his funeral.
I’d smiled when I found it.
I thought Larry had written a goodbye. The man couldn’t accept a coffee without thanking me three times.
Then I read the next sentence.
« Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe. »
The blood drained from my face. I sat down.
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