I’m forty-eight days away from my thirty-first birthday. If she’s still alive, she’d be in her late fifties or early sixties by now. She could be anyone. She could be nobody. She could be someone who thought about me every day or someone who never looked back once.

I have genuinely no idea which version is true, and I think that’s the part that is going to keep me up the longest.

Dale’s handwriting is really small. I keep noticing that. The card has a coffee stain on the corner now because I’ve had it on the table for three weeks. I don’t know why I’m telling you that part. I just remember it.