Porter realized the sheet of paper wasn't a sheet of paper at all. It was white like paper but felt like a piece of parchment. It looked old. Damn old. The ink did not. It was bright red, crisp, looked like it could have been written that morning. That wasn't possible, of course, because dead people don't write, and it had without a doubt been penned by his beloved Alice, her beautiful flourish filling about two thirds of the page.
My Dear Porter:
It is very important that you do exactly as I ask in this and every other one of these documents. Some of this will seem very strange to you, my love. I know that. But you need to trust me. Please.
Tomorrow at 6:10 PM, run a special showing of Lawrence of Arabia. You'll find the three cans on the left end of the archive rack.
Trust me, Porter. Please.
PS: Put it on the marquee as soon as you can!
Porter read it again, laid it on the desk. Picked it up. Read it a third time. Looked up at Larry Walker, who sat there with a blank face. He was putting it on the desk for good when he pulled it back, squinted at a tiny entry in the bottom right corner. His hand shook and his head felt light. Like the rest of the writing, this entry was bright red and obviously written by Alice. It said, “January 18.”Their anniversary.