It was a diary, and it went back years, and I stood in that terrible bright room and read it with my blood going colder by the page.

The handwriting changed over time, got tighter, got heavier, but the subject never changed.

The subject was always Julian, and it was always the same fear, circled and re-circled like an animal wearing a path.

One early entry stopped my breath: After the accident, it was only the two of us.

His father is gone.

Good.