"I told ya, I'll text it to you.""You told me?""Sorry.""For a minute there I thought you were asking me for something."Lynne could not recall whether or not she had met Mike Korzeniewski before.If they were close enough, him and Andrew, to be spending the night, she thought that she would have met him by now. This filament of the unknown splintered, lodgeditself into what was left of her Saturday afternoon. When it was six o'clock, threehours after the phone call, three more hours than were necessary to type in a series of digits and press send, she began to worry. This anxiety consorted with othersbelonging to an already copious ledger of existing worries and their immutablereminders of her recent inadequacies. Her inability to wake herself while parked onthe side of the road for two hours. Inadequate. Catching up on the sleep she lost earlier that week because she found a letter addressed to her son under a rock on herfront porch. Inadequate. Her son's name inscribed in ball-pointed block letters. Adequate people, adequate parents, would have thought nothing of this. Thedescription of its author’s unrequited affection would have been consideredendearing, even if the affection described came from another boy, which in this case, it had. The boy's name conscientiously positioned beneath the letter’s last line. The tendigits of his phone number demurely secured underneath it and the adjoining initialof his surname, K. Mike K. If she wasn't so completely inadequate, she thought, she would have recognized that this was Michael Korzeniewski. The boy whom she grantedher son permission to stay the night with. It shouldn't have taken longer than threeminutes to recognize this, not three hours. Inadequate.
She examined the letter now. The folds she refreshed with the heel of her handbefore she hid the letter in the one place in the house had the least possible chance of being found by Andrew (her underwear drawer), were now splayed before her, the