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Dear Dakota,

You don’t know me, but I’m the guy who hit your car almost six years ago.

I printed the words as neatly as possible on a sheet of stationery I’d borrowed from my mother. I’d read somewhere that letters were more personal when handwritten. It didn’t get much more personal than confessing your worst sin.

I added another sentence.

You’re paralyzed because of me.

The words sat on the page in stark black ink, damning in their simplicity. I’d already been sentenced for this. Gone to prison. So why was it so fucking hard to write a letter admitting to what I’d done?

My eyes burned. Maybe this was the wrong move. Why was I apologizing anyway? What was an apology in the face of a lifetime in a wheelchair?

I put the pen back to paper, mind spiraling, my handwriting going sloppy as I wrote too fast, anger and self-loathing swamping me.

I’m so sorry that you paid the price for my idiotic, stupid, childish behavior.

I tossed the pen down and considered throwing the letter into my trash can. Where five other failed attempts sat wadded up and discarded.

My phone alarm went off. Time to go to work.

I silenced it and stared down at the slip of paper before me. It was pale blue, dotted with little flowers. It was ridiculous to write something so terrible on something so pretty. Maybe I should write it on plain notebook paper. Stop trying to disguise it as something nice and polite when it could never be that.

The pool house door swung open, revealing my father. He didn’t bother to knock. “Joey, it’s time⁠—”

“I know.”

“You can’t afford to lose another job.”

“Why not?” I challenged.

He drew in a breath, then said nothing. Damn. He wasn’t rising to the bait.

“There are dozens of dead-end jobs that will bore me to tears,” I muttered. “I can get another one.”

“And that work program you’re in. Can you get another one of them?”

I sighed. “Probably not.”

“So…”

I set down the pen and folded the letter in half, then in half again. I kept going until it was a square that would tuck into my wallet. “So I’m going.”

“Good. I’m glad something matters to you.”

I grabbed a fresh hoodie from my closet, took my keys from the hook, and tried not to look in the mirror. Words Knight had said to me once flashed into my head.

Can you look yourself in the mirror? Can you like what you see? Can you say you’re a good man?

There was a time I thought I could do that.

Not anymore.

River City Print was exactly what it sounded like. A boring-ass print shop where people got invitations, flyers, and posters printed up and cut to size.

I clocked in two minutes late. My supervisor, Molly, sighed audibly. “There’s a stack of bookmarks to trim.”

I nodded and started past her.