"Write about a dusty typewriter and a half-finished letter," said the teacher.
Sally's typewriter was in the back of her closet, tucked against the wall. Dust was the detritus of years. And the letter was one she'd started to her brother long ago.
"Dear Sam, Take care. Take care," it said. They’d been the only words her fingers could write.
Now she typed them sadly into her computer, "Take care," hearing bombs and the sound of guns, and her mother's broken wail at the open door.
Sam's half-finished letter rested in his effects, "Dear Sally, Take care;" his typewriter destroyed.