There’s a tiny arrow pointing to the creature and three words next to that, written in small, neat letters, the kind of letters that Cal used: this I love. Without a doubt, it’s Cal’s handwriting. I know from the way the tail of his e kicks upward. I know it because he loved the octopus. I know because he loved this book. I know it in a way I can’t prove. It doesn’t make me sad, exactly. It’s a feeling I can’t seem to name.
