In the fall of 2018, a temporary postal worker named Cara took a six-week assignment at the tiny Metolius River post office in Camp Sherman, Oregon. She was told the previous carrier had left abruptly after thirty years—no explanation, no goodbye. The job was simple: sort mail, weigh packages, hand letters to the handful of residents who still walked up the gravel path. But the post office had rules she hadn't been told about. Letters with no return address were to be set aside in a locked drawer. Every morning she found that drawer empty. She started paying attention to the handwriting on the envelopes she was supposed to ignore—looping, old-fashioned, always the same ink. She opened one. She should not have opened one. This is what she read before the mail truck came up the road ahead of schedule.

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