The letters must go to the mailbox. The cloudy-cream envelopes and their contents of love must go to the mailbox. So I sweep them off the kitchen counter, which is littered with crumbs, and slip out of the house. The faded green door slams like a thunder clap behind me. No one will wonder who left. They’re used to me.

I wear no shoes. The sandpaper cement is hard and soft beneath my toes, warm in the sun, cold in the shade. Every step makes a shuck shuck sound as dry feet create friction with dry stone.

In less than a moment, the kingdom of cement is behind me, and I trade its cool certainty for dusty, shifting gravel. Avoiding the rockiest areas, I plod along with a lazy familiarity that could only be born from years’ worth of believing shoes are overrated. A silky film of dust constantly cradles the soles of my feet, but I simply don’t care. Barefoot is free.