Remember the days when writers used to write paper letters to each other, sent through the mail? Did their letters feel so different from all the emailing that goes on today? We set up writers Claudia Dey and Stacey Levine in a paper-correspondence, and are posting their letters on The Believer Logger slightly after the letters are received by their intendeds in the mail. This is the second letter from Claudia to Stacey. Here is the previous letter in the series. This was the first letter.

Dear Stacey,

It is spring here and everyone is injured. Just yesterday, I saw a young woman in jean shorts with a gold-colored prosthetic leg. This would never have happened if she had been wearing an overcoat. With human skin comes medical equipment, I guess.

Apparently, the new thing is “cool”, which I admit I have tried, but found, with its emphasis on opposing actions, exhausting. I prefer a more direct route so I just wanted to say outright: I am having a terrific time on our blind date.

There are a couple of flourishes in your first letter that readers would not have been able to see. One is a sticker of a pretty, galloping horse with the thought bubble: “I am not confused.” Another is your signature: Stacey L. The L is shaped like the L on Laverne’s shirts. I am curious: Have you ever worn a uniform? Or ridden a horse? (I have done both, and unfortunately, my horse was confused.)

Please, what was the honking sound you set your paragraphs to? Animal? Machine? My ambient panic? I felt especially concerned when you left off your letter to investigate Nancy Drew-style: “There’s nothing wrong with going outside late at night…”

You asked what I am up to this week, and all I can say is: Last Sunday, something very upsetting happened on our street. We pulled the curtains open and there were police cars, ambulances, two fire trucks and a SWAT team in front of our house. I stepped onto our porch and asked the nearest cop what was going on and he said: “There is a man in distress and we are trying to keep him calm.” I had a baby in my arms. “There are no weapons involved. There is nothing for you to be concerned about.” I decided we should leave the house.

Going out the back way, I turn into the alley with the stroller and, ahead of me there are four people in stocking feet standing with their backs to a garage door. They are making the sound of children in trouble; laughter, but not quite, and they are...