Daniel’s voice shook as he faced the crowd. “I came tonight to hand out plaques,” he said, “but I can’t do that until I say something to our new principal.” He turned to Mr. Hollis, who had gone pale. “You have been here eighteen months. Do you know why Route 9 never once ran late in thirty-five years?” The gym went completely silent.

Then Daniel reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn yellow envelope, its edges soft with age. “My mother gave me this the week she died,” he said. “She made me promise to open it in front of everyone on the night my driver retired.” My father frowned, because he had no idea what was inside. My stomach dropped. Daniel’s hands trembled as he tore the seal, and he began to read the first line.