She told him about the letter that evening, over the dinner he'd made, which was a roast chicken that was entirely competent in a way that suggested significant prior consultation of a recipe.
She read him parts of it. Not the whole letter — some of it was private in the way that things about your formation were private, the material of you that predated anyone else's access. But the section about the red coat she read out loud, because that was the part that had sat in her chest all day and needed to be outside her.
He listened. He ate his chicken. He did not interject.
When she finished he was quiet for a moment.
"The red coat," he said.
"Yes."
"You're still doing it. Inhabiting things fully."
"He noticed it before I did," she said.
"What did you write back?"
She told him. The e
