“No, no, they’re fine.” “Is there anywhere he might have put a notebook? Like by his hospital bed or something?”
The bed was already gone, reclaimed by hospice. “Hazel,” his dad said, “you were there every day with us.
You— he wasn’t alone much, sweetie. He wouldn’t have had time to write anything.
I know you want... I want that, too. But the messages he leaves for us now are coming from above, Hazel.”
He pointed toward the ceiling, as if Gus were hovering just above the house.
Maybe he was. I don’t know. I didn’t feel his presence, though.
“Yeah,” I said. I promised to visit them again in a few days. I never quite caught his scent again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Three days later, on the eleventh day AG, Gus’s father called me in the morning.
I was still hooked to the BiPAP, so I didn’t answer, but I listened to his message the moment it beeped through to my phone.
“Hazel, hi, it’s Gus’s dad. I found a, uh, black Moleskine notebook in the magazine rack that was near his hospital bed,
I think near enough that he could have reached it. Unfortunately there’s no writing in the notebook. All the pages are blank.
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