He finishes the ritual perfectly on time as the clock rounds six a.m. He'll be welcomed home tonight by a sink, stove, and fridge that gleam in a kitchen reeking of food safety. Not that he'll cook in that shining room, but he will at least need to drink some water, and so, as a final touch, he double-checks his five-gallon jug, refilling it from the sink and carefully adding the recommended quarter-teaspoon of bleach (plus one or two drops—better safe than sorry) to ensure a clean supply for the next several days.

Plain envelope. No return address. My name scrawled in red ink like the sender was drunk or desperate. It’s familiar, though. A ghost. Inside: one sentence. I forgive you. The words burn. Acid on skin. I read it three times. Shake the envelope for anthrax. Forgiveness always carries a price.