The Identity
Check

On Rancho Drive, after a desert rain, an old woman steps off a bus with a stack of letters that are not hers. Friends on the street tore them out of garbage cans and boxes. She feeds them, one by one, into a mail drop beside a Husky station marked for demolition. A man in a smoking Audi hauls the box away. A giant at Eddie’s gym carries it down to a metal door. Under a bare bulb, the envelopes are opened. Names, numbers, lives. By morning, the people who wrote them are no longer the only ones using them.