I Got Home From the Oil Rig Two Weeks Early and Found My Eight-Year-Old Son Cooking Dinner for Strangers—The Messages He Never Sent Explained Everything.

I helped Finn rebuild it last spring, this time with a real door, a window, and a latch on the inside that only opens from the inside.

He chose that.

I didn’t ask him why.

On the night of Day 365, I found him sitting on the back steps with my old phone, typing slowly with both thumbs.

The scar on his arm showed in the porch light, a pale crescent moon.

I sat down next to him.

“You know you don’t have to keep writing,” I said.

“You can stop anytime you want.”