Some answers felt closer long before they could be held.
Monday morning arrived beneath soft gray clouds.
A cool breeze drifted across the streets of Chicago as the city slowly woke for another week.
Inside a downtown postal sorting center, hundreds of envelopes moved steadily along wide conveyor belts.
Bills.
Postcards.
Birthday cards.
Official documents.
Among them—
one cream-colored envelope rested quietly between dozens of others.
Across the front, neat handwriting read:
Mr. Noah Carter
The sorting machine stamped the corner with a fresh postmark.
One more step completed.
One more mile behind it.
Its journey continued.
---
Back at Westwood High—
the first bell had not yet rung.
Students gathered beneath the old oak tree, chatting before first period
The First Chapt
