Saturday afternoon as I was working in the yard, I found a padded yellow envelope sitting on the hood of my truck, and immediately knew what it was: a letter from my friend Phil, who I first met on a rainy Sunday morning many years ago when he was locked behind the gate of the empty lot next to us and I luckily knew the padlock code. Phil, whose real name is not Phil, has lived for more than a decade in an abandoned building not far from here, at the edge of an industrial site near the river. He is a gifted maker who crafts useful objects from the things he finds, and a book lover with whom I have been carrying on an exchange for close to a decade. I made my last drop to him on last year’s freakishly hot Christmas Day,
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