They picture a big white ranch house with a wraparound porch, horses in the distance, maybe a pickup truck parked under a cottonwood tree while the sun drops gold across a perfect Montana evening.
That is not what my brother and I inherited.
When we left St. Matthew’s Home for Boys outside Billings, Montana, all we owned in the world fit into two army-green duffel bags and a taped-up cardboard box full of cheap paperbacks, three old photographs, and a pocketknife that wasn’t supposed to leave the orphanage workshop. My brother, Caleb, carried the heavier bag because that was how he was. He always took the weight without making a speech about it.
I carried the envelope.
It was thick, cream-colored, and had both our names on the front in clean black print.
Mason Reed and Caleb Reed.
Sister Agnes handed it to me on the front steps just after breakfast. The sky was big and pale, the kind of sky Montana gets when spring is trying to look like summer but the wind still carries winter in its teeth.
