The Forgotten Man Pt2

FOURTH CALL 2.00 PM PHONE: PHANTOM 8 ALTER-EGO: FRENCH DELOIT, LOBBYIST. TARGET: CONGRESSMAN WINTER HUNTER TIME IN OFFICE: 20 TERMS GOAL: NO VOTE ON HOME BASE RULE

CONVO AS FOLLOWS:

“Good evening Congressman Hunter, How are you?”

“Is this Deloit?” Asked Hunter. He was screaming into the phone because he was stone deaf, 82 years old and cognitively impaired. Well, slightly impaired.

“Yes it is, Congressman.”

“What do you want, Deloit? I Know what your up to. Your partner’s are calling my colleagues raising all kinds of sand.”

“Call me French, Congressman.”

“French Deloit?” He screamed into the phone.

“That’s me sir.”

“What do you want, French Deloit?”

“Vote no on HBR this Friday.”

“What? No? Vote no?”

Why wasn’t I talking to one of his aids? Someone who could hear at least. “Yes sir.” I said.

“Why?” Still screaming.

“A last minute check found Communist influences.”

“What? Commies? Where?

“They want to turn missle silos into certified Home Bases, sir. Which would mean dismantling the nuclear rockets inside each silo.”

“Thus limiting our ability to defend ourselves,” Hunter said with surprising clarity.

“Exactly sir.”

“Okay French Deloit let me make a few calls, see what we can do.”

“We would appreciate that no vote sir. The Joint Chiefs would consider your no vote a personal favor.”

“The Chief’s? I lost a thousand bucks that time they played Tampa.”

“No, The Joint Chiefs, sir. They are depending on you to cast a no vote and Save the Silos. Sir. Casting a no vote on HBR. A no vote. Save the Silo’s, sir.” Now I was yelling.

“French Deloit is a Canadian providence, isn’t it?”

I hung up. Why was I even calling this guy? Why was he on the list? Why was he still getting elected, still serving? In my life long study of political science I’ve never been able to understand the attraction voters have to geriatric politicians. Men and women who survive year after year to pass laws that make little or no sense, pander to smaller and smaller special interest groups. Groups demanding favors far greater than any enjoyed by previous generations. The progressives stand ready to cancel anyone with a difference of opinion.

FIFTH CALL: 4.00 PM PHONE: PHANTOM 6 ALTER-EGO: LANCE WUNDARUNNER CONSULTANT / FRIEND TARGET: CONGRESSWOMAN ELISE TRUMBALL TIME IN OFFICE: 4 TERMS GOAL: NO VOTE ON HOME BASE RULE

CONVO AS FOLLOWS

“Elise, How are you doing today?”

“Who is this?”

“Lance Wundarunner.”

“I’m busy right now, Lance Wonder-worker.” She always mangled the name on purpose because she didn't believe it was real.

In the background I could hear, Captain insisting Elise take a bag of groceries out of her Range Rover and put them back in the Range Rover. “Second Take, c'mon, mom.”

“Mommy’s on the phone, Captain.” Captain was her oldest, an insufferable fifteen year old boob tasked with directing the latest Elise Insta post. Her handle was Mamma-Congress. Fourteen million followers tuned in to see Elise Grocery shopping and then making dinner after a hard day debating evil democrats, reading the constitution in front of a warm fire. Her eleven year old twin daughters, Treasure and Threat, were taped regularly at the gun range, riding horses or playing tennis with last year’s Wimbledon champ. Her critics panned her little videos calling them insufferable, cheesy and dishonest. Attentive mom, busy congresswoman fighting for her constituents while skiing in Aspen and dancing in TikToc videos just didn’t ring true. She claimed she was being transparent. When she had to get an important message out to her peeps, as she called her voters, her kids did the talking. In one video, Threat stared straight into the camera while holding a revolver in her tiny hands. After a full ten second close up of the child’s maniacal eyes she said, “Come pry it out of my cold dead hands you evil bastards.” Two days later, a second video dropped. Treasure holding the same revolver looked straight into the camera, smiled like an angel and said, “When you understand what a clean shoot is you’ll understand gun control.” Elise addressed these issues on the floor of the House explaining the liberal dream of confiscating firearms was a dream that couldn’t be allowed to come true. The ‘cold dead hands,’ comment is how most gun owners feel. This is the hill they’re willing to die on. The clean shoot refers to killing in self defense after your home or business has been broken into. When it’s down to either you or them what are you going to do? You have a right to defend yourself and your loved ones using deadly force. “Unfortunately there are many young white men who long for an opportunity to make a clean shoot. Kill the intruder without going to jail. It’s a shame the desire to kill resides within so many. It’s the desire we must remove not the guns.”

“So Elise are you busy right now?”

I’m always busy, Lance, what do you need?”

“Looking for a no vote On HBR.”

“The old Home Base Rule.” She sighed. “Yeah that.”

I’m Confused, Elise, "why a conservative like yourself is voting for this bill?”

“We got some provisions shoe-horned in, last minute. That and I’m a little fed up with my party right now.”

“How’s that?”

Watching these RINO’s is like watching a woman whose in love with a man that beats her children and does nothing about it.”

“Is this a revenge vote?”

“No more complex than that.”

“Tell me.”

“How can I explain this? Hold on. Captain get your sisters in the car. Here’s the keys, turn on the air, sweetie. Mommy’s on an important call. Sorry about that. When the do-gooders invite the no-goodniks into their homes to protect them from the cops who are supposed to be protecting all of us, they will learn, the hard way, that not having a firearm is like not having a life jacket on a sinking ship. After homes and lives are destroyed, and they will be, people will wake up and embrace the miracle of small arms in close combat.”

“Your willing to let people get hurt in order to make the point that guns are necessary?”

“Lance. An old colleague of mine once said justice seldom takes place in courtrooms. Sometimes Justice sits on the edge of a death bed or in the last lonely row of an empty church you couldn’t be bothered to attend. Justice walks slowly, catching us no matter where we are. For unrepentant law breakers justice catches them in the streets. And the streets clean themselves.”

“Is that why some prosecutors are letting criminals back out so quickly, because the streets clean themselves?”

“That’s a theory being bandied about by some of my former colleagues. It’s a great social experiment that only a rich, and well protected lib, could survive.”

“Yeah, seems like it. What’s the last minute provision you got?”

“My little piece of pork requires home owners, and renters, to keep a firearm in their domicile for protection, effectively putting a ‘self defense mechanism’ in every house in the country.”

“Why not require them to put locks on their doors?”

“Crooks come in through windows.”

“So your addition to this crazy bill would protect law abiding citizens while the streets are cleaning themselves?”

“In theory, yes.”

I wondered how this provision squared with Abby’s statement about ‘nonexistent gun laws.’ Are these people not reading the law they’re trying to pass? “Elise If HBR goes through it’s going to tip the scales in favor of criminal activity. Chaos will ensue.” I imagined millions of inexperienced gun owners shooting themselves. And what about felons who aren’t allowed to have guns? That’s an argument sure to find its way to every talk show in America.

“Chaos is already here, Lance. Nobody cares.”

“I need you to care, Elise. No on HBR. I mean it.”

“Why? For the first time since being elected I don’t know what the end game is. What’s the end game, Lance? Where is not voting for this bill going to take us?”

“Same as it’s always been, balance. To keep the country balanced, Elise.”

“That’s your end game. In case you haven’t noticed nobody in the House cares if the scales are balanced.”

“I have to play the cards I’m dealt, even if it means dealing from the bottom of the deck. I have to see the whole picture and make minor adjustments. Take heart, Elise, sometimes it doesn’t take much.”

“Not seeing it. I wish, Edwin were here, Lance. He knew how to make sense of senseless things.”

“ I know the Captain had a way of sorting through the mess. I miss him too.”

“Yes, Captain Edwin James Trumball. My confidant. My husband. My anchor. And now my lost love.”

Elise was losing energy, getting weepy. She got like this when remembering her husband, Army Captain Edwin James Trumball who had gone missing in Afghanistan two years prior. She always held out hope that he’d return. Triumphantly of course. In the meantime she kept herself busy getting elected to Congress, championing conservative causes, never backing away from a good fight and generally being a force colleagues and opponents alike were loath to deal with. She was dangerous because she was honest. I visited her on the night she moved into her Georgetown digs. I brought a message. She listened, she laughed, she said okay Lance. I knew she wasn’t going to do a damn thing I asked her to do. Almost everyone I had approached up to that point had been corrupted in some way, everyone had skeletons. Not Elise. Believe me I tried to find them. I researched and read and talked to people. Even the men and women she had sent to prison as a young prosecutor liked her. I liked her. She was the kind of girl you brought home to meet your mother. So instead of trying to dig up dirt I looked for ways to help her. I passed along info about her colleagues in the House and Senate, little quotes that might be useful when facing off against a particularly devious opponent. I never fed her anything salacious or even mean although I could have. Rather I found quotes from men and women who had flip-flopped on issues. It was always exciting to watch Elise quoting the ancient words of some esteemed congressperson, words that happened to agree with her view of an issue. ‘So Congressman tell me, am I a liberal on this issue or are you a conservative?’ Conservative America cheered. They had a hero.

“Commit, Elise, please. ”

“Ya know, Lance I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“I’ll take you out to eat.”

“Yeah, where?”

I thought for a moment. “Casey Murphy’s Steakhouse.”

“Got chased out of there two months ago by a pro-abortion mob. I think I’m going to go home drink something strong and go to sleep. Dream of the Captain.”

“Let me come over, we’ll talk.”

“Lance, I love you but we’ve been talking for twenty minutes and haven’t solved a thing.”

“I’ll bring...”

She hung up. I didn’t try to call her back instead I ordered three large pizza’s, three two liter bottles of root beer and had them delivered to her place. It’s what a friend would do.

FRIDAY.

I got to the office early. Abby was on my mind, I wondered how Teddy was holding up in solitary? Abby is probably out of her mind. I had nothing to do with Teddy’s arrest and confinement. When trouble was visited upon a target I got a heads up but that's all. I caught the news just like everyone else. This morning I was tempted to call Abby and offer her the number that would start the wheels turning to get Teddy released. But if Abby started calling before the vote took place nothing would happen. If she went against my advice and voted yes on HBR, Teddy would languish in jail. The wheels of justice would grind her into salt. And I, like everyone else, would be stunned to hear that a congresswoman’s gifted daughter was dealing drugs out of her dorm room. I decided to wait.

The phone rang. “Hello?”

A man’s voice said, “Turn on the news, Lance.” then hung up .

My heart sank. He had addressed me as Lance which meant something was up with Elise Trumball.

I hoped she wasn’t on the front steps of her home holding a press conference. Or worse standing arm in arm with Abby Colder spilling the beans on the mysterious phone call they both received from an unidentified man. Me. Or that after said call Abby’s daughter was suddenly arrested and jailed. The pit in my stomach told me everything was going sideways fast. I turned on the TV in time to see a DC police chief holding a press conference on Trumball’s doorstep. He read a prepared statement into twelve microphones as reporters edged closer to his makeshift podium.

“At approximately 5.45am, Captain Trumball, Congressman Trumball’s oldest son tried to wake his mother. When she wouldn’t wake up he called 911. EMT’s arrived on the scene in approximately ten minutes and found her unresponsive. They tried to revive her, in fact worked very hard hoping for a miracle but no miracles were forthcoming on this Friday morning. She was pronounced dead at the scene at 6.30am.”

Reporter’s starting shouting questions. The chief did his best to answer everyone.

Reporter 1. “What was the cause of death?”

“We can’t release that information until after an autopsy is performed.”

Reporter 2 “Where are the children?”

“With family members.”

Reporter 3. “How are the kids holding up?”

“They’re devastated.”

Reporter 4. “Was their any evidence of foul play?”

“At this time we don’t think so?”

Reporter 5. "Did she have pizza delivered last night?"

The chief turned and saw three soggy boxes of pizza and three bottles of root beer that had been left out all night. “I guess pizzas were delivered and left when nobody answered the door to take delivery. We’ll be investigating that.”

The Trumball’s never used their front door. They drove directly into the garage and entered the house through an inside door. Guests also entered through the garage. I had entered through the garage on two occasions. Captain was probably watching for EMT’s and hit the button for the garage door.

“Reporter 6. "What time was it delivered? Is there a receipt?”

“I’m sure there is.” Said the chief. “We’ll be establishing a time-line.”

Back to Reporter 1. “Do you have an approximate time of death on the Congresswoman?”

“She was pronounced dead at 6.30am. The coroner will be releasing a more accurate time with his report.”

Reporter 7. Where are the children staying?”

“Family. Undisclosed. We would ask that, out of respect for the kids, you not approach family members. They will be giving their own statements and many of your family questions will be answered at that time.”

Reporter 7. “Were there any pets on the property?”

“We didn’t see any.”

My phone rang again. A man’s voice. “Did you order those pizza’s Lance?

“Yes.”

“Did she know your real name?”

“No. I was always Lance. My activities were well documented.”

“How did you pay for the pizza?”

“Crypto.”

“Stay in your office until you hear from us.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, you have enough to eat?”

“Not really. Not really hungry.”

“Got a favorite place?”

“Molly’s. Burgers, chili, fries.”

“Someone will be over after the office closes tonight.”

“Thanks.”

He hung up.

Then called back. "Henry did you make that 'Save the Silo's' thing up?"

"Yes, I did."

"Very cool, my friend."

I hung up.

I’d just been punched in the gut and wasn't in the mood for chit-chat. First reaction: scream, cry, kick the wall, crawl into bed, sink into depression. Mourn. And of course, the one word question hanging in the air, why? Was I the reason why? Of all the messages I’d delivered, none had caused death. Until now. What kind of emotional desperation suddenly clicked causing Elise to believe suicide was a solution? Her mood changed when she started talking about her husband, the absent, Captain Trumball. The love of her life. She was saddened by the fact that she didn’t know where the country was headed; didn’t know the end game. The Captain wasn’t there to help make sense of it. I took out a clean sheet of paper intending to write a list of possible causes of depression followed by a timeline of her life since arriving in DC. This assignment was for my eyes only, for my own peace of mind. I was not to blame for her actions but I wasn’t particularly innocent either. My job was to apply pressure in order to achieve a desired result. By writing down the times and events where our lives intersected I thought I might be able to pinpoint the cause of her demise. Then the phone rang.

A female voice. “Can you meet me outside, Henry?”

“Sure.” I locked my office door and walked out to the parking lot where, Jordan, the receptionist, was standing under a tree smoking a cigarette. “What’s up?” I asked.

“I just wanted some company while I stood out here destroying my lungs. Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

“Do you ever get lonely sitting in that office by yourself all day, Henry?”

“Never thought about it?”

“Never curious about what happens in the rest of this big office with all these worker bees buzzing around?”

“Not really.”

“You ever wonder about all these hot, single, female attorneys working here?”

“Sure, I wonder about them but I've never approached one.”

“Why not?”

“My job is to remain anonymous, deliver the message and leave or hang up.”

“Do you ever wonder who writes the messages they ask you to deliver?”

“At first I did but over the years it didn’t matter to me anymore.”

“Ever deliver a message that went against your beliefs?”

“I’ve said things that I would never say myself.”

“Like?” She finished her cigarette and lit another.

“I was instructed once to threaten a man’s family. I made the threat in front of his wife and teenage daughter.”

“What was the threat?”

“I’d rather not say. It was ugly, and for me, completely out of character.”

“What kind of reaction did you get?”

“The guy completely wilted, he started to cry. His wife went from fear to disgust as she watched him fold. I knew when I left his marriage was probably over.”

“What about the daughter?”

“She said, daddy, do something. The guy was twice my size. He could have crushed me. She wanted dad to remove the threat. But dad knew he was powerless.”

“That must be a horrible feeling,” said Jordan.

“What’s with all the questions?”

She flicked her smoke on the ground and crushed it into the pavement. “I wanted to get to know you a bit before I delivered my message.”

“What?” My heart started to sink.

“Your car is only twenty-five yards away. Over there.” She pointed. “In light of recent, tragic events it would be best if you got out of town for a while.”

“Why?”

“I overheard a conversation between two of the partners and a third guy who I can only assume was from your office. They don’t want the issue involving Congresswoman Trumball to land on their doorstep. They want you out.”

“Where will I be transferred?”

“The Theater.” She said.

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s where your sent when your too valuable to kill but too dangerous to be left roaming around free.”

“Like a prison?”

“They call it a retreat. It’s anything but.”

“Jordan, be honest if I got in my car right now and left is there anyplace I could go where they wouldn’t find me?”

“It’s not about escaping it’s about giving yourself time. Disappear on your own terms, not theirs.”

“But eventually…”

“Eventually you might live a full and wonderful life and die at home surrounded by your family.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I play a role, just like you. Sometimes a pawn, sometimes a queen but always playing a role”

“What role have I played?”

“Rook, bishop, knight. From what I’ve heard your very good.”

Who moves the pieces?” I ask.

“That I don’t know. An invisible hand?” She shrugged.

“After a while, it ceases to be important.”

“I have a briefcase under my desk with enough cash for a fresh start. In an hour your bank accounts and credit cards will be frozen, Your apartment will be invaded by a swat team and FBI agents looking for reasons to blame you for her death.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Your name is on her suicide note. The clock is ticking, Henry.”

RUNNING.

I ditched my car, my phone, laptop and all forms of ID. Rented a cherry-red Eldorado with my last active American Express card. I head west. Southern California seems a good place to start over, three thousand miles away. I figure five-six days on the road and time to formulate a plan. The briefcase holds three hundred fifty thousand dollars and a Burger King gift card.

Nice touch Jordan.

I leave the gift card in a mail box near to where my old car is parked. I left the windows down and the key in the ignition. It won’t last an hour in DC. Those looking for me will discover parts but not much else. I make a left turn and head toward the coast; eyes constantly in the rearview.

I listen to the radio for any news from Washington, especially news of Elise, Abby or Teddy. The temptation to call someone for an update is constant and strong. So far radio news is sufficient. At night I find a truck stop and squeeze between two eighteen-wheelers. It feels safe.

In Nebraska I trade the Eldo for a black Mustang and in Salt Lake turn the mustang in and buy a bus ticket along with a large suitcase to store the briefcase in. Three hours later I’m checking into a hotel in Wendover. I take two hundred in cash and stand in line for an all-you-can-eat shrimp dinner. It’s darn good. I try my luck at the slots winning ninety bucks. Head over to the black jack table and score another two hundred. Beginner’s luck. I’m three hundred ahead. I call it quits and head up to my room. I’m exhausted. I feel safe, safe enough to sleep. My last thought before going under: I’m free. Nobody is looking for me.

When I wake up I can’t move. My ankles are duck taped together, wrists in handcuffs and my body is zipped into a heavy plastic black bag. All the air has been sucked out of the bag so I can’t move. I’m vacuum-packed. My head is exposed. Breathing is difficult. I take small breaths keeping my eyes closed. I’m laying on a stretcher inside a small jet. Strapped down. I hear voices around me, I’m not understanding. Someone notices that I’m awake. I feel a needle going into my neck. Everything goes black.

When I wake up a second time I’m in a clean white room in a hospital bed under fresh smelling sheets. My arms and legs are free and I can move about. Relief.

“How are you feeling, Henry?” A young nurse looks straight into my eyes, smiles. “Glad to see you back among the living.”

“I didn’t know I was dead. Where am I?”

“VH State Line Retreat.”

“I’m not a veteran.”

“Not VA, VH, Henry. Vermont slash New Hampshire.” She made a slashing motion with her hand.

“Why am I here?” I ask.

“We have the honor of taking care of you for a while.” She touches my arm.

“Thanks. I won’t be staying long.”

“I hope not. I’ll be doing everything in my power to assist in your recovery.” Her voice was soft, almost hypnotic; in any other setting, I would have allowed myself to fall under her spell. Not here.

”Recover from what? I don’t remember being sick.”

“Your body has a dangerous chemical imbalance.”

“Is that right?” I smiled, winked, letting her know I was in on the joke.

“Gut health.” She says and pats her tummy. “And drugs, specifically hallucinogens. You were in pretty bad shape when we found you at the front door.”

“Front door?”

“Yes. You drove in, stumbled to the front door, and began pounding. Then passed out. Your lucky. A janitor happened to be working that night, he saw you and called the emergency medical staff. They saved your life, Henry.” She smiled, touched my arm again.

“Thanks for saving my life and all but that’s not quite the way I remember it.”

“Dr. Strong will be in to see you later, I know he’s looking forward to visiting with you and hearing your version of events. I have to go attend to some other patients.” She turned and made a quick exit.

2035.

The story you just read was written in August of 2022. I tried to smuggle this story out with the young nurse who was sitting by my bedside when I woke up. Her name is Marianne, by the way. She promised to put my story in the hands of someone who had authority to facilitate my release. Her attempts have all failed. Attempts to get the story published have also failed.

Over the years, I’ve received the following news from my former life.

Abby Colder – Left congress in 2024. No Further details.

Teddy Colder - Graduated Harvard law, practices in New York. Married with two children.

Rulon Biggs – Dead, 2025. Heart attack. No Details.

Winter Hunter – Dead, 2023. No details.

Steve Basely - Still serving.

Captain – Attended Stanford. Law degree. Lives in California.

Treasure. Attended Berkley. Author and woman’s rights activist. Lives in California.

Threat – Gun lobbyist. Lives in DC. Married with three children.

Jordan – Still working at law firm. Plans to retire next year.

Bits of information dripped in over the years, usually delivered by Marianne who deposited news articles in my nightstand drawer. One afternoon, sitting in my room staring out the window at the thick forest surrounding the retreat I realized I hadn’t given any thought or serious consideration to receiving, gaining or even being granted freedom. I no longer felt like a captive just a guest. I heard Marianne enter the room, open the drawer to my nightstand and drop something in. “You got mail today, Henry.” She touched my shoulder.

“Mail? I’ve never received mail before. How would anyone know to contact me here?”

“I have no idea but this envelope came addressed to you.”

“Is there a return address?”

“No there isn’t, Henry.” She gave my shoulder a little squeeze.

“Marianne We’ve known each other almost thirteen years.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And I’ve never said this before but you must know I’ve fallen in and out of love with you, probably half a dozen times.”

“That isn’t unusual. We can become attached to those who care for us and those we care for.”

“Have you ever fallen in love with me?”

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and kissed my cheek and then the top of my head. “What does that tell you?”

“Gives me shivers, good shivers.”

“Me too. I was very taken with you, Henry. But acting impulsively wouldn’t be fair to you. So I kept my emotions in check."

“I imagine it was probably against your code of conduct.”

“One’s heart doesn’t always adhere to a code of conduct. Instead of dragging you into the nearest broom closet and having my way with you I went home and worked very hard to dig up some tidbits of information about your past that I could present to you, that would make you happy. I loved to see your face light up when I discovered something.”

“Did you ever discover something that you kept to yourself?”

“I learned that you were a very big deal in DC. Probably much more important than even you were aware.

“Who told you I was a big deal.”

“The one who worked in the law office.”

“Jordan?”

“Yes. She seemed to know what you did and said you were very good at your job. You affected a lot of lives.”

“Let me ask you one more question, Marianne. Do you think If I was on the outside and we met that we could…”

“Yes,” she said, “I do. But if We met away from this prison I would have to tell you, despite all my love and admiration that I am, in fact, married.”

“Since when?” My heart sank a little.

“Two years ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you might be hurt.”

“Yeah probably.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I can’t be mad at you. I just wish we’d made it to the broom closet. Just once.”

“Oh look at you, you bad boy.” She playfully slapped my shoulder. She stood up. “I have to go now. Read your mail, think good thoughts.”

I went back to staring out the window. Fog was gathering, gray and white mixing with green. Mystery creeping in around a building that held too many secrets. I fell asleep in my chair and when I woke dinner had been delivered. I ate, showered, got ready for bed. Because I had spent the entire afternoon sleeping I couldn’t sleep now. It was about this time that I remembered the letter.

It was a large envelope, with 2 photos inside. And a three-page handwritten message.

Page 1.

Henry,

If I had it to do all over again...The thought keeps me up at night. I relived every intimate detail of our night together a million times. I even relived your fantasies like going out for ice cream, bringing you lemonade, having children. The house, the white picket fence were all within reach. I treasure your innocence.

Page 2

I’m so sorry that you lost your freedom. I left the company as soon as an opportunity presented itself; about eight years ago. I’ve been searching for you ever since. If this letter makes it to you I’ll be surprised. The place your locked up in goes by a lot of names. The Resort, the State-Line hospital, and Theater something. It’s an urban legend. People laugh when I bring it up. I’m a conspiracy theorist.

Page 3

I’ve included my address so if there’s anyway you can get a letter out to me I’d love to hear from you. Take care. Love Zoe.

In the first picture a little boy roughly five years of age has his arm around his sister who looks to be about three. She’s holding a purse. You can tell they’re brother and sister. Zoe is kneeling behind them, hovering like a mother hen. The second picture is Zoe now years older and aging gracefully standing between her two adult children. A handsome young man on her left and a beautiful daughter on her right. On the back of the photo, the note reads, ‘Henry and Zoe’ hope for the future.