Inside was the blue spiral notebook, folded papers, a cheap phone, and a key card.
“Quincy,” I whispered. “What is all this?”
“Proof.”
He handed me the notebook.
The pages were filled in pencil and crayon, some letters backward from when he was smaller, then neater as he grew. Dates. Names. Snatches of conversation. Drawings of hospital hallways. A list continue reading …
