Ben must have read the letter a dozen times by the light of the moon, sitting at the top of the stairs of his house, before he started curling into himself. His breath shook as he broke down sobbing, stifling his cries to not wake anyone; he could not bear the thought. He read it over and over through tear-stained eyes, covering his mouth to keep quiet. Ben’s fingers crinkled at the pages’ edges, threatening to tear the letter. His body felt adrift, floating on a raft in disrupted seas even if he sat still.

He pressed the letter to his forehead, gasping the cold winter air. The words sank into him like his father’s lashes – painful, lingering. He remembered every single one.

As the night sky tinted deep blue with the oncoming day, he left the house. Trudging through the freshly-fallen December snow, he arrived at the general store, snatched a pen and paper, sitting in the windows and writing under the golden light of the gas lamps. As the sun rose and Durmont continued to rouse, Ben wrote his letter. He moved backward, receding from the sunlight. He wrote draft after draft for as long as possible, hiding the pages written under a loose floorboard in a corner of the storeroom. His father arrived to find his second eldest son counting the money from the register, momentarily lost in thought.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked, approaching Ben and snatching the money from his touch. “I can do this; go count the inventory.” Mr. Price slapped the ledger across his face, it landing flat against his chest. By the time Ben emerged, a lovely stack of parcels for delivery assured him he would be gone from the shop for the rest of the day. “I’ll see you at the end ’f the day, Benjamin.”

Ever restless, in the wee small hours of the nights that followed, Ben took up a corner of the general store’s counter, working as quiet as breaths by the light of the street lamps, writing and revising. He took his father’s lashings without so much of a whimper, only curling into the fetal position once it was over and holding his breath as the burns of torn flesh subsided.

The final letter he composed, a short, single page of his hand’s plain and shaking words, was sent four days later.

December 27, 1893

Dear J. Byrd,

I am writing solely to express my thanks to you and your family for accepting me as a recipient of the Hutchinson Academic Scholarship. I am deeply grateful to be selected for this wonderful opportunity. Words cannot describe what I felt when I received your letter of acceptance, and I certainly cannot try to explain them now. Either way, I wish to thank you for giving me the opportunity. I know there must've been many other applicants worthy of this privilege.

Thank you again, and Happy Holidays to you and everyone.

Sincerely,
B. Price