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.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
He was silent for a little while.
“Because the first twenty-six were for you to find,” he said.
“These ones are just for me.
I like having somewhere to put the day.”
I wrapped my arm around his shoulders.
He leaned into me the way he used to when he was small enough to fall asleep in the truck.