There was a printout of that too, in that same bin, because Rebecca prints things.
Four round-trip tickets, Phoenix to Kona. A resort, six nights, ocean view. A rental car. A luau for four on the Saturday.
Nine thousand, four hundred and some dollars, on a trip taken by two people who were four months behind on a forty-one-thousand-dollar credit line, three weeks after a demand letter, during which they left the woman whose contribution was listed as household income at home with soup in the freezer.
I sat on that patio furniture with those pages in my lap and I said out loud, to nobody:
“Oh, Danny.”
Because that’s when I understood the note. Really understood it.
They didn’t leave me home because they thought the flight was too long for me.
