When Blima found Harpo again, he was at the dock, sitting quietly. She sat down beside him, carefully so that the package tucked in her pants didn’t make a sound. She picked up some pebbles and sprinkled them into the water. The secret about having a secret was that you wanted to tell it, always. You wanted to talk about it so badly every second.
Harpo held up his pen. “I’m practising my letters.”
“You can’t fool me,” said Blima. “You know how to write.”
“Yeah.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Are you writing a love letter?”
“I’m trying,” said Harpo.
Blima kicked at the water. She squirmed around, and pulled out the package, the love letter that she’d been hiding for so long, and silently passed it to Harpo. He put down his paper and pen, and took it.
Blima held her breath as
