It wasn’t a diary, it looked more random than that—thoughts, ideas, doodles. November 1989, it began, the time they were apart. He began to read. There was a momentary flutter of the page, maybe the breeze or a tremor from his hand. A young man’s voice traveled across the fence. Ellis? he said. Ell? But Ellis didn’t hear. “November 1989,” he read. “I don’t know the day, the days have become irrelevant.”
