I met him in a quiet diner near the bus terminal and laid the blue notebook on the table between us, and the threatening messages beside it.

Harlan read the notebook slowly, his jaw tightening as he turned the pages.

“A child does not invent records like this out of nothing,” he said.

“Every figure here connects to something.

Your son is playing a very dangerous game against very dangerous adults, and he’s playing it well.” He looked up at me.

“The question is how we get him out of it alive.”