draft of The Springs. It would be worth more than this entire house. He wouldn’t find it. It was no longer kin of the other plays, having left Mathilde decades earlier one dawn, filched by the hand of a young man who had woken in shame and fury in an alien house, who had let the dog out in the dark to pee and made fruit salad and coffee without turning on the light. He had slid the papers under his shirt, had warmed them with his skin as he drove back to the city. In the end, it didn’t matter. Land had had a claim as strong as any, it is true; a boy who had explained the theft in a letter he’d
...more
