Then two.
Life started returning to normal. Almost.
Until a package showed up.
No return address. Just our name, written in neat block letters.
Inside: a worn-out flannel shirt. And a note.
“Thank you for letting me pretend.”
We changed our security company.
Months went by without a trace of Everett. The cops said they’d keep the case open, but admitted they had no leads.
But here’s the twist no one saw coming.
That fall, our neighbor across the street, Mr. Talbot, had a stroke. Paramedics came. I was out front with Nadine when it happened.
And Everett appeared.