Dallas comes back into the bedroom a minute later, and there’s a stack of papers clutched tightly to his chest. “Take a look and find out.” “What are those?” “You’ll see,” he says, and he drops the pile in my lap. I pull the twine holding them all together and postcards scatter everywhere. I pick up the first one and run my fingers over the corners, studying it like it might hold some sort of clue as to what’s going on. It’s from California, a vintage style design with tall palm trees and a bear on the front. I turn it over and see Dallas’s handwriting on the back. M- I always get June a
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