Thatcher takes the old library book out of my hand. The cover of The Outsiders is worn, and his chest rises as he flips to the list of names, eyeing the last one written. Skylar Moretti Thatcher started with less than me. I have possessions strewn throughout my childhood house. His whole life was in a bag, and it went up in flames. I just wanted to preserve something for him. He kisses the top of my head. “Thank you, Jane.” He pinches his eyes for a half a second, then stands and slips The Outsiders on my teenage bookshelf.
….aaaand another one to the 2024 cry count
