A letter appears in the mailbox, the hand looping and neat, sealed with blue wax. There's no design; it's been pressed by something simple and flat. (It was his salt shaker.)

My stalwart Gaeta,

I don't know how to properly thank you for your nighttime company these last few months, or if I even can. You were there for a man who was half-crazed and needy. What you have done goes beyond just companionship. I think, I truly think, that you, Peter, and Angel were the only things keeping me from going entirely mad.

For all of this, I believe I at least owe you an explanation for everything. When you have time, give me a call on the sending stones. We'll have lunch together.

Your grateful friend,
Fr. Francis John Patrick Mulcahy