"Thank you." At the mention of the messaging, he recalled the little thing they gave him earlier, the thing that made no sense to him and that he stuffed unceremoniously into a belt pouch without giving it a second thought.

"Ah, no, they haven't." Not that he'd asked. He pulled it out and offered it toward him, holding it awkwardly and somewhat gingerly.

"I'm not good about writing letters, I'm afraid." If anyone were to ask his oldest sister, she'd say he was much worse than not good. At a sudden thought that what he'd said could be interpreted to mean he was nearly illiterate, he added, "Not that I can't. I just don't enjoy it much." It felt far too confessional for his liking.