Chapter 52

He passed the time by scribbling in a new notebook with a purple cover. He wrote short, dated entries—anything he could remember. And he kept the book close at hand, only relinquishing it to Dakota while running an errand. He even slept with it nearby.

Dakota stole a few quick glances at the writing. The language felt rushed, truncated. Still beautiful, of course, but not the same. He silently wondered if Terrell could write poetry or fictional prose, too. He thought that might be incredible.