The letter had come on Thursday and Hest had opened it alone at the kitchen table before Venn was awake. She had read it twice, folded it, put it back in the envelope, and set it under the ceramic bowl they kept by the door.
The letter was seven sentences. The Bureau of Continuance sent them on a standard form, though the language was careful. It described the assignment: female, eastern territories, a family in a coastal district, expected arrival in approximately four months. There was a reference number. There was a box to indicate she had received and understood the information. She had not yet checked the box.
She had thought about not checking the box. She understood that it would not change anything. The form was not a consent form. It was a notification.
She had spent the three days trying to decide what to tell Venn and in what order, and whether there was an order that would make it easier, and had concluded that there was not. She had made dinner twice. She had gone to bed at the usual time. She had not slept well but she had slept.
Venn was in the garden. Hest could see her through the window, working along the beds at the back fence. The light was going. She did not know what she would say when Venn came in. She had been sitting at the table since lunch.
The door opened.
Hest said: I have to tell you something.
Venn said: I know. She came in and washed her hands at the sink. She said: I found the letter.