Henry says three more families have left his group, but a couple of young men came down from Santiago--mostly curious. He doesn't know how long they'll stay.
It's hard for me to fathom why anyone--how anyone--could live in darkness, or a lingering dusk, could seek that.
The sun gives Henry headaches--bad ones, so he stays as far away from it as he can. He grew up in California, often in pain, and moved around until he found our counterparts--those who follow the night.
I've asked him about drugs, and he's asked me about antidepressants. But it's a lengthy conversation, and disjointed, because we correspond only at the turnings. Six months between letters.
I've wondered why we don't write more often, in between, use a simple stamp. But it feels like we would be breaking some rule.