Chapter 19
Later that afternoon, Arthur walked out to the front gates to collect the daily mail from the stone post box.
Among the business journals and legal notices was a plain white envelope bearing no return address and a smeared Texas postmark.
Arthur slit open the envelope with his thumb, pulling out a cheap piece of lined notebook paper.
The handwriting was shaky, messy, and nearly illegible, scrawled by someone whose hands were clearly broken by hardship.
"Dad, please... I'm starving and sleeping on park benches in downtown Houston," the letter read.
"I made a terrible mistake. I just want to see my son one last time. Please help me."
May you like
Arthur stared at the words for a long, silent moment, his expression hardening into absolute stone.
He struck a match from his pocket, holding the flame to the corner of the paper until it burned to ashes against the concrete.
