“So what are you going to do with the letters?” Denny asked. It was two days after graduation, and he, Miles, and I were sitting on the tailgate of my truck in our spot, way out in the woods.

“No idea,” I admitted.

It had been a couple weeks since my meeting with Kellie at the café. After talking to her and then, that night, reading Miles’s letter, I’d begun to rethink my whole plan. Not that it had ever been much of a plan to begin with. I’d been so sure that distributing the letters, getting the truth in front of people, was the only answer. It hadn’t really occurred to me that those truths might cause even more pain for some of us.

“My mom saw Sarah’s dad at the grocery the other day,” Denny said. “He told her that the book will be out next spring.”

My stomach clenched, the pain a mixture of dread and loss. I know Sarah’s parents will never look at me as the same girl who used to have sleepovers at their house. No matter what I do with these letters, that damage has been done. In some ways, knowing that feels like losing Sarah all over again. I still care about them. I never wanted to hurt them. But God, I really don’t want that book published. Not just because of Kellie and my guilt over the part I played in what happened to her. But also because Sarah wouldn’t want it.

I’m done pushing people into doing things they don’t want to, even if I think it’s better in the long run. We’ve all had our stories used to advance someone else’s agenda in some way or another. I won’t do that to my friends. Not again. Not anymore.

But that doesn’t answer Denny’s first question.

“I can’t just destroy them,” I said. “The letters. I don’t know what to do with them, but … I can’t let them go to waste, either. It just seems wrong.”

“Did you write one?” Miles asked.

I shook my head. “No. Not yet. I don’t know if I should bother now.”

He shrugged and reached down to scratch behind Glitter’s ears as the yellow dog sidled up to us, her tail wagging. She seemed just as happy to be back in our secret place as we were. I suspected her motivations came more from the freedom to track the scent of squirrels and pee on new trees. For us, though, it was bittersweet. None of us had said it out loud, but we knew this was likely the last time the three of us would be here together again now that we’d graduated.

I looked over at the tree Miles had carved the “6” into years ago. I could feel Miles watching me, could feel his eyes follow my gaze long before he reached out and wrapped his fingers around mine. “You should write a letter,” he mumbled.

“I thought you were against the whole letter thing,” I said.

He tilted his head at me. “It didn’t turn out as bad as I thought.”

I smiled, feeling the heat creep up my cheeks, only this time I reveled in the way he made me blush instead of fighting it.

Denny, either oblivious to this or pointedly trying to shut down the moment (I’m going to guess the latter), spoke up. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Maybe writing your own letter will help you figure out what to do with the rest of them. It can’t hurt.”

He was right that it couldn’t hurt, but here I am, the end of the summer, and I’ve written all of this down, hoping it would give me an answer, and I’m still just as confused as I was when I started.

Now I’m sitting here at my computer, staring at this massive document with all of our letters weaved in. Well, all of them but one. I don’t have Kellie’s letter, but her story is in here, too. Except, of course, that it’s her story through everyone else’s eyes. Just like it always has been.

If I try to publish this, then, sure, some of our stories will be out there, in our own words. Part of the story will be set straight. But I’ll be taking Kellie’s voice from her all over again. Even without her letter, I’ve depicted her, speculated. I have no more right to put her story out there than the McHales do.

But if I do nothing, if I hit “delete” on this document, then none of us get our story told. We’ll all be forever stuck as the versions of ourselves seen in newspapers and TV movies. And hell, even if I do publish this, that might be the case, anyway. The world has mostly moved on from the VCHS massacre. It’d be hard to change the accepted version of the narrative that’s been out there for years.

If it’s going to happen at all, it’s got to be soon. It won’t be long before the McHales’ book is out. People will be thinking about the shooting again. It’s our chance to make people take notice. Our chance to be heard.

Maybe the reason I can’t make a decision on this is because it’s not my decision to make?

Whoa—wait. That’s it.

It’s not my decision. I shouldn’t be the one making the choice about what to do with these letters.

But I think I know who should.