My Son Said I’d Be Taking The Bus—Until I Opened The Glovebox

a small zippered pouch I’d never noticed before—a pouch that sat flat against the bottom of the compartment like it had been designed to go unnoticed—was something else.

A flash drive.

A sealed envelope with my name written on it in Rob’s handwriting. The letters were careful, deliberate, the way he wrote when something mattered. Not his quick engineer’s continue reading …