Tyler tapped a spoon against a coffee mug.
“Okay, okay. There’s one more thing.”
Mason looked alarmed.
“There are several more things.”
“Figure of speech.”
“It’s inaccurate.”
“Mason.”
“All right.”
Tyler nodded toward Diane.
She disappeared into the back.
When she returned, she carried a wooden box.
She placed it on the counter.
It was old, scratched and covered in stickers.
Diane opened it.
Inside were hundreds of envelopes.
“What are those?” I asked.
She looked at Mason.
“Ten years.”
My throat tightened.
Diane lifted the first letter.
“These are from people who sat at booth seven.”
Another.
“People who used the cards.”
Another.
“Parents whose kids came during quiet hours.”
Another.
“People who worked here.”
She smiled.
“People who found out what Mason was doing and wanted him to know it mattered.”
“Did he read them?”
“No.”
I turned sharply toward Mason.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“I wasn’t eighteen.”
