She found him in the kitchen at three in the morning.
She had not been able to sleep — the letter was on her desk, opened and read four times, and she had lain in the dark thinking about what it meant and who had done it and the specific complicated feelings that came with someone doing something significant for you without asking.
He was at the counter with a cup of tea, looking out at the courtyard below. He heard her come in — she’d learned that he always heard people, the specific alertness of someone who had spent years in environments where not hearing things had consequences.
He turned.
She held up the letter.
He looked at it. Then at her face. He didn’t say anything.
“You arranged this,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him. “Why withou
