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that I am not going to open any envelopes from you.
    Sincerely,
    Andy Whittaker
    ¶
    Kind Sirs,
    I read in the paper about Fellowship Christian Tabernacle’s program “Neighbors Helping Neighbors.” I was moved by your efforts and the huge amount of money you have raised—all those bake sales, raffles, and car washes. I was particularly impressed by the two-and-a-half tons of aluminum cans. I am not a member of your church, or any church, but I gather from the article that you still consider me to be your neighbor. I am appreciative of that sentiment, and if ever I do go to church—which I may in the future—it will certainly be at your establishment. I am a widower living alone. I am not old, but my health is far from perfect. I have a noise in my chest. I am finding the care and cleaning of my house increasingly taxing and difficult, especially getting the dust bunnies out, which I now see are everywhere under things, especially beds and sofas. I find that when I bend over the noise gets worse, and my breath makes them scoot away and become harder to catch. The house is old and full of china knickknacks—treasures of my late wife—that have to be picked up and dusted and put back, which takes hours and is difficult for someone whose hands have a tendency to shake. I would be broken-hearted if I dropped one. I know I would hear Claudine reproach me, as she was ever wont to do, and I couldn’t bear that now. I have everything needed except a squeegee to wash the windows. My wife always used balled-up newspaper and vinegar, which I never thought was a good idea, since it left black streaks, although she denied this. My phone service has become unreliable due to work they are doing in the street. I am home almost all the time, so if you think that I am a “worthy cause” you could just send someone over.
    Your neighbor,
    Andrew Whittaker.
    ¶
    Dear Harold,
    Thanks for your letter; it was so very friendly. I too would like to have a regular correspondence. You must have read between the lines of my letter that I am really not well. It’s not just the chest; I am finding the house in which I am now living to be very oppressive, especially when it rains, as it has been doing practically nonstop for days, especially when it is untidy and cluttered, as it inevitably is, for reasons I can’t get to the bottom of, since I seem to be always cleaning. It’s not the rain itself so much as the silence the rain brings with it, the way the sound of the rain on the roof and windows makes the quiet inside the house so much more noticeable, perhaps because it drowns out the little noises I otherwise make, the padding of bare feet on the floor, the scratching of a pen, an occasional gentle clearing of the throat. I think of you and your work outdoors with plants and animals, and I am horribly envious. I lie on my back on the floor, looking up at the ceiling for leaks, and I think of you bouncing across the furrows on a tractor. I suppose it is often sunny down there. I have been working on a new story, set in the Wisconsin farm country (where I have never actually been), and it would be great if you could answer some technical questions now and then. Maybe I could even come down for a short visit, get a feeling for farm life. Your family sounds wonderful, and I am very fond of animals, especially baby donkeys.
    I have decided to move out of my house into a smaller place, where there will be less room for ghosts, and I have been packing things into boxes. I have a regular wall of boxes stacked in the living room. I can scarcely see out the front windows anymore. In the evening, when the light through the rain-streaked panes has softened the edges of the boxes, they look like sandbags, and I have the comfortable feeling of being fortified. I have closed off the dining room, since it’s jam full of stuff I brought up from the basement, and the hall is almost full as well. There is a hemmed-in feeling to the house now. Fortified, or