"Of course you do," Grahame says. "That's why you read it, no doubt. One last swipe at me." He folds the letter back up. "Well, it's sentimental garbage, I'm sorry to say. I wasn't exactly at my best when I wrote it."

It's a well-worn technique of his, brusque dismissal to cover for vulnerability. Worn to transparency at this point, perhaps, at least to those who know him, but he holds on to it. It's all he has.

He has yet to look up.