If Catfish Had Nine Lives(66)

            It was more than plain impatience for me, though I wasn’t sure if I didn’t like Joe or didn’t trust him or didn’t . . . something. I had been sensing something was off from the beginning, but I couldn’t pinpoint anything, exactly. Whatever it was, it made me wary and suspicious and drove me a little crazy. I was usually on top of my instincts, and I didn’t like not understanding what I was feeling.

            “Shall we?” Jake prompted.

            “Okay, Joe, go ahead. We’re ready,” Gram said.

            “Miz, whatever it is, I just want to thank you for everything. All these years . . . thank you,” Joe said.

            “You, too. You’ve been a delight.”

            I blinked.

            “Here goes.” Joe lifted a flap on the side of the mochila.

            “He’s reaching in the mochila now,” I told Jake.

            “Excellent. I’m ready.” He held a pen poised over a brand-new, small notebook.

            Joe reached in and pulled out a folded piece of paper. This one was off-white. But it also had dark edges, as if . . .

            “Oh, no,” I said.

            “What?” Jake said.

            Gram had also said something similar to my “oh, no.”

            “There might be something wrong with the letter,” I said to Jake. “It looks like it’s been burned, around the edges at least, and the burns seem to be spreading as we’re looking at it.”

            “Not good,” Jake said.

            If the piece of paper had been real, not something from the world of the dead, or the unknown, or wherever it came from, I doubted that it could be unfolded without falling apart. Not only did it look like it was burned; it was thin and flimsy. I didn’t know whether to attribute its condition to its afterlife existence or if it had simply been delicate when it was real. The blackened marks extended toward the center—more of the letter had been burned than not burned.

            Joe did manage to unfold it, though he was slow, carefully holding the edges by his fingertips.

            Once it was open, he placed it on the table and carefully smoothed it mostly flat. He spent a long moment looking at the paper, his concentrated focus not giving away much of anything.

            I was peering at the letter, hoping something would become clear, but nothing happened quickly. I scooted off the stool and moved closer, to the spot behind Joe. He looked up and directly at Gram. I touched the paper just to see if I could feel it; I could.

            “It has only a few words,” he said.

            “I see the same thing,” I said, when I finally did.

            “Okay, what are they?” Gram asked.

            “Sure to die,” Joe said.

            “The paper only says: Sure to die,” I said to Jake.

            “Well, that’s interesting, in a scary way,” Jake said.

            “That’s all it says?” Gram moved next to me.

            “That’s all I can see,” Joe said.

            “Me too. That’s all I see,” I said. “No, wait, what’s down at the bottom? It looks like the letters . . . S-T-I-N.”

            “Is that in the signature spot?” Jake asked. “The spot where you’d sign off?”

            “It looks like it,” I said.