"I finally made it to Harbor," I whisper, hauling the suitcase that still smells faintly of mildew and pine across the quad.
"You say that like it's an achievement and not the beginning of rent payments," Audrey says, sliding her phone into her back pocket as she grins at me.
"Shh," I whisper back and press the worn envelope to my chest. The envelope is thin, the handwriting slanted, the stamp smudged. I keep it between two pages of my sketchbook like a secret fossil.
"What's in the fossil?" Audrey asks.
"A friend," I say. "A penpal. He left letters in the old sycamore in B-Town. He never signed his name. He said he'd find me here if I ever came to Harbor."
Audrey tilts her head. "You literally moved across the city because of someone's handwriting?"
"Not just handwriting." I hold up the envelope. "He smelled like coffee grounds and riverweed. He had a narrow back. He wrote me about leaves in winter." I pinch the edge of the paper because saying it out loud sounds ridiculous.
"Okay, that's romantic and slightly insane," Audrey laughs. "Also, you did not bring a single decent camera. You brought a Nokia that plays Snake."
"It still texts," I say. My fingers fumble for my glasses. The world doubles and slides around the edges when I haven't pressed the frames just right. I push them up, knock them crooked, and keep walking.
We reach the pool
