Chapter 15 The handle turned.I stood there with my thumb still wet from scraping paint and my heart going in my throat, because I'd spent an hour telling myself it would be locked.It wasn't locked. It was just painted shut.The door gave with a sound like a scab coming off.Dust. That was the first thing. A wall of it, dry and gray, and I turned my face into my shoulder and waited for it to settle.The room was small. Nine feet by nine, maybe. No window. A single bulb hanging from a cord, and when I pulled the cord the light came on yellow and old.It was a mail room.Pigeonholes ran along one whole wall, floor to ceiling, each one with a little brass label under it. SILVER CREEK. RIDGE. HOLLOW. NORTH POST. COURIER. Some of the labels were so old the ink had gone brown.Under the pigeonholes was a table. On the table was a bundle tied up with string.I untied it.Letters. Six of them, all in the same cheap envelopes, all going out. I flipped through them — Mill & Sons, Feed and Gra
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