I reached out and touched the shoulder of the diary Charley. He didn’t crumble into paper. He was warm and substantial, and I wished I had touched him earlier, so he wouldn’t have spent the last seconds of his life utterly alone. I wished I had caught him that day at the courthouse, when I’d felt his eyes asking for my help. I wished a lot of things. My eyes were hot then, and I blinked and quickly looked away. He deserved better than that, I know. There wasn’t time.
