Sunday, August 10, 1997
Dear Nova,
What’s it like where you are now? How does it smell? What colors do you see? I wish you could be here instead—or at least I wish there was some way you could write me back. I miss you.
The disorienting, though welcome novelty of a life away from constant reminders of Erie often has me hopeful that a happier existence is possible—but for the past two nights, it’s clear that such hasty optimism is premature. I only feel stuck on some purgatorial loop. Either my dreams are playing tricks on me, or I’m coming closer to some dark secret that feels only just beyond my reach. I often think of the photographs Singer showed me at the police station, their gruesome images seared into memory and haunting my thoughts.
As I write, I’m still with Asher at the cabin
