Dwayne loves being a mailman. Twenty-nine years of walking the village in a day have given him fine, muscular calves, but his shoulders are lopsided from the mailbag.
He misses real mail: creamy envelopes with slanted, ink-splotched handwriting, penciled letters addressed to Grandma Willis.
Most of all, he misses postcards—their glossy pictures of places he’s never been, their jaunty greetings.
When Dwayne gets home, he tosses his bag aside and reaches for an old shoebox. He closes his eyes and shuffles through hundreds of cards, pulling out a picture of a seaside sunset. Hi, June! We’re having a blast!