"one of two" script on an inner wrist

The petrol station at Coyote Wells sells everything except the thing I came for, which is a decent map. The man behind the counter says the road south of here was washed out in March and never put back, so I am writing this on the bonnet of the van while the sun works its way up the sand. You will say I should have stayed in Leeds. You were always the sensible one, which is why Mum left you the sideboard.

Mum's last letter reached me in Yuma, folded in quarters and stained at one corner with what I hope was tea. She wrote that Gran had asked for both of us at the christening, and the vicar got muddled and called out only one name, so the whole chapel turned to stare at the empty pew. I laughed until I coughed. Then I thought of the two of us on the ferry to Dover, one of us always holding the rail and one always holding the bags.

Here is what I have worked out, out here. A road only means something when there is a second one to go with it, a return line on the far side of the dunes. Yesterday I found a cairn of white stones with a tin plate wired to the top, and someone had scratched "one of two" into it with an arrow pointing back the way I came. No name, no date. I stood there a long while deciding whether to follow it or carry on.

I am carrying on. I wanted you to know that I looked. Keep the sideboard, and tell Mum the second pew is free next time.

Love, Jo