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inspect the strip of wood more carefully. Yes, it was definitely sticking out at one end, but he didn’t see any sign of insects or rodents. He curled his fingers around the top edge and gave an experimental tug—and then nearly fell on his ass when the long piece of wood came free.
    The walls in the building were plaster and lath. Someone had scraped a good bit of the plaster away and broken some of the laths, leaving a little cave at the bottom of the wall. The hole was less than a foot long and maybe six inches high, and it would have been obscured completely by the molding if the wood had been properly in place.
    Despite the dirty floor, William laid his cheek on the linoleum and looked into the space. Shoved inside as deeply as possible was a metal box.
    After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully stuck his hand into the cavity, grasped the box, and pulled it out. As he lifted it, something shifted softly inside. The outside was a dull rust color and had several small dents. There were no markings, but the lid sported thin hinges, a flimsy clasp, and a wire handle.
    Whoever had hidden the tin box in the wall was long gone, probably even long dead. But still William felt as if he were intruding into something private as he eased open the clasp and tried to push back the lid. It stuck for a moment but then gave way with a little squeak.
    The box was filled with yellowed papers, each folded precisely in half. He lifted the topmost one and unbent it to reveal rows of neat, slightly faded handwriting. He squinted at the topmost lines. Up against the left-hand margin were the words Mar. 18. 1938 . Below that, a salutation: My dearest Johnny .

Four

     
    I N HIS little apartment, with his half-eaten dinner in front of him and the TV tuned to a news station purely for the company of its noise, William contemplated the box he’d found. He hadn’t read the letter beyond the first line. Instead, he’d refolded it, replaced the tin lid, and carried the box back with him. Now it sat on his small dining table. The box had clearly never been anything special, and it hadn’t weathered the decades well. But there was something enticing about it, like a treasure chest or a surprise parcel that had arrived in the mail. He wanted very much to open it and read the contents. But he was forcing himself to wait.
    “Finish dinner first,” he said out loud. “And do some work. Then you can snoop.”
    Okay, maybe it was time to give up on the no-talking-to-himself rule. Lots of people thought out loud. In fact, in one of his classes they’d read a couple of studies that suggested talking to oneself could actually help improve cognitive process under some circumstances. Besides, he hadn’t seen another human being all day and his throat felt rusty.
    He finished his meal—grilled ham and cheese with a sliced apple and some chips—and washed the few dirty dishes. Then he turned off the TV and switched on a Bach violin concerto. He sat in front of his laptop and entered data until the lines of numbers grew wavery and he became afraid of making mistakes. He shut down the computer, settled into one of the comfortable armchairs, and opened the tin.
     
    Mar. 18. 1938
    My dearest Johnny,
    I don’t know how I will get this letter to you or when, but I will write it anyway. Because my thoughts are always with you, my love, even though our bodies are separated by so many long miles.
    I have been quite a scoundrel. It’s only lately I’ve earned the privileges of pen and paper, and only after weeks of struggling very hard to be good. I’m supposed to be writing to Mother and Father, telling them how delightful my stay is and how caring the staff, and how I’m certain I’ll be cured in no time at all. But I’ve stolen some of my writing supplies and a lunch tin belonging to one of the orderlies, and I’m writing to you instead.
    And oh Johnny, I will not be cured.
    I want to be free of this oppressive place, of course. The food is