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When she finds it, her first impulse is to set the damn thing on fire. But that wouldn't help none, and certainly wouldn't bring him back to her. She thinks about going after them, about traveling the back roads in her truck till she finds that stupid Impala – she'd know it anywhere by now – and collaring him and dragging him home. But that wouldn't work either. He's too bound to those boys and their quest and while it might be beyond her understanding, she has to let him go.
In the meantime, she carries the letter with her. There's not a lot of him left in her house; he didn't really live there. The detritus of his life is mostly at Bobby's and she doesn't want to look that pathetic, going over just to find a shirt that might still smell like him. Bobby comes by to check on her anyway, and she figures it's as much for his sake as for hers. And it gives her someone else to cook for. The letter slips neatly into the pocket of her apron, or into her jeans, or the pocket of her coat. Whenever she misses him too much she slides her fingers over the paper. He's gone long enough for it to turn from crisp and smooth to worn and soft, the creases digging deep enough to tear. It's not even that the words matter so much, what with there being so few of them. But he wanted her to know he'd be going, that he'd be gone, that he might not come back. That means more than she'd thought it might. So does the way he signed it and what he told her in it. She reads it every night before she goes to sleep. Sometimes she dreams about him. Sometimes she wakes up crying and doesn't know why.
And then one night she comes home and he's there like he never left. Later she'll realize that's not true, finding the hollows under his eyes and the way his ribs poke out and the way he can't talk about the new scars on his back. But he's there in her kitchen with a glass of milk and turning his head to see her walk in the side door and then his arms are around her and he's murmuring her name into her hair.
"You're back," she says, feeling stupid the moment she says it. The flannel of his shirt is warm and soft against her cheek and soaks up her tears.
"I had to come back for you," he says, voice rough.
"You didn't have to. But you did." And she thinks of so many more things but she doesn't know how to say any of them, so she settles for kissing him. It works pretty well.