MY SON'S BEST FRIEND SHOWED UP AT HIS FUNERAL WEARING A BRIGHT RED DRESS—WE THOUGHT IT WAS DISRESPECTFUL, UNTIL HE REVEALED THE PROMISE THAT LEFT THE ENTIRE CHAPEL IN TEARS

The pull-down stairs to the attic creaked under our weight as Daniel led the way with a heavy flashlight.

The air in the attic was stale and cold, smelling of cedar shavings, old cardboard boxes of Christmas ornaments, and twenty years of accumulated family history. Shadows danced across the exposed rafters as Daniel swept the beam toward the brick chimney at the far end of the roofline.

Theo walked behind me, his sneakers silent on the plywood floorboards. He knew exactly where to go. Without hesitation, he knelt beside an old oak armoire that had belonged to my mother, ran his fingers along the edge of the subfloor, and wedged his fingertips beneath a warped cedar plank.

With a soft groan of old nails, the board lifted free.

Inside the dark gap between the joists lay a vintage red metal tackle box, scratched and chipped, with a brass latch. Jack had bought it at a yard sale when he was ten years old to hold his fishing lures.

Daniel dropped to his knees, his denim jeans scraping the floor. He didn't touch the box. He looked up at Theo, his eyes pleading. "Open it, son."

Theo knelt beside him, unlooped the paracord from around his neck, and inserted the brass key into the lock. The tumbler clicked with a heavy, satisfying snap.

Inside, there were no fishing hooks or plastic worms.

Neatly stacked inside the tray were four cassette tapes labeled in black marker, a stack of spiral-bound notebooks, and a thick legal envelope bulging with documents.

On top of the tapes lay an old, portable Sony Walkman with a pair of foam-padded headphones.

Daniel reached in with shaking hands and lifted the first cassette. The label read: *PLAY ME FIRST — FOR MOM AND DAD.*

"I can't," Daniel whispered, pulling his hands back as if the plastic had burned him. "Martha... I can't hear his voice right now. It'll kill me. It will literally tear my chest open."

"We have to, Dan," I murmured, kneeling beside him and taking his large, calloused hand in mine. "He left this for us. He spent his final energy on this."

Theo gently took the cassette, slid it into the Walkman, and pressed the play button, switching the output to the small external speaker built into the side of the player.

A low hiss of static filled the cold attic air.

Then, a cough. A soft, familiar clearing of the throat that made every muscle in my body freeze.

*"Hey, guys,"* Jack’s voice drifted from the speaker. It was weaker than it had been when he was healthy, with that slight rasp from the oxygen tubes, but the unmistakable warmth and teasing inflection were completely intact. *"If you’re listening to this in the attic, it means you survived the funeral, Theo didn't get arrested for cross-dressing, and Dad hasn't broken his hand on a wall yet."*

Daniel covered his mouth with both hands, his shoulders shaking in violent, silent weeping.

*"Mom... don't be mad at Theo for keeping the clinic secret,"* Jack continued, his tone turning quiet and serious. *"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that if we had caught it three months earlier, maybe the chemotherapy would have worked. Maybe the tumor wouldn't have wrapped around my spinal cord. But Dr. Vance told me the truth during my second hospital stay when you were down in the cafeteria getting coffee. This was an osteosarcoma variant. It was already in my bone marrow before my junior year even started. Finding it in May wouldn't have saved my life. It only would have stolen my last summer of freedom."*

The recording paused. We could hear the sound of Jack taking a labored sip of water through a straw.

*"That last summer was the best summer of my life,"* the voice said softly. *"Theo and I drove out to Mill Creek every weekend. We fished until sunset. We camped out on the sandbars. If you had known, I would have spent that summer in an oncology ward being poisoned by chemicals that couldn't cure me anyway. Theo gave me that summer. He gave me my last taste of being a normal seventeen-year-old boy. Don't punish him for that. Forgive him."*

Theo had buried his face in his knees, his hands clutching his dark hair as sobs wracked his body.

*"Now,"* Jack’s voice sounded firmer, almost playful again. *"Look at the legal envelope in the box. Dad, you're going to want to sit down for this. Theo doesn't even know what’s inside it yet."*

Daniel reached forward, his fingers brushing against Theo's shoulder as he lifted the heavy envelope. He tore the flap open and pulled out a stack of crisp, legal-sized documents bearing the blue stamp of a local attorney's office.

At the top of the first page, typed in bold black letters, were the words:

**LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT & TRUST AGREEMENT OF JACK D. HARRIS.**

Daniel frowned in disbelief. "A will? He was seventeen years old. He didn't own anything."

"Read the second page, Daniel," I urged, pointing to a document attached with a gold seal from the State Bank of Oakridge.