We finish the book one chapter at a time. Their notes get longer. So do mine. Chapter 20, they write: 'You read people the way you read books. Too generous.' Me, under it: 'Nobody's ever accused me of that before.' Then I reach the last page — past 'The End' — and there's a full paragraph in blue, waiting. It starts with: 'Okay. The book is finished, so here's the truth I owe you.'

Chapter 15, a blue note stops me cold: 'Real question. Why did you give this book away? People don't leave their favorite book in a box on the street for no reason.' They're right. There was a reason. I sit with the pen for a long time. Then I write it: 'Someone used to read it to me. They're gone now. I couldn't look at it — but I couldn't throw it away either.' I return the book. Slowest three days of my life.