"Yes, girl. There is coffee, but it isn't made. I prefer whiskey in the evenings."

"Oh, I'll gladly make it, thank you," she breathes, brightening. Twisting something inside of me. Something like guilt for tearing up her letter.

Damn, I wish I'd read it now. It might have given me information about her. I find I'd like to know...everything. But I don't want her to get the wrong impression that I give a shit. When I show compassion, that's when people take advantage. That's when they pounce. ...