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. — I think about it for the rest of the week, and by Sunday I decide the feeling has something to do with Cal being in a library along with other people who no longer exist in the world. The traces of them are hidden, small lines in books. In a library from which no one can borrow.
