3am on a Saturday.
I can’t sleep, which has become less unusual and more simply the rhythm of this period of my life — my body running on a schedule that is not fully human anymore, the wolf’s internal clock pressing at the edges of the one I was raised with. I’ve stopped fighting the 3am. I use it.
I am on my floor with my back against the bed frame and my father’s journal propped against my knees, working through the entries in the order he wrote them rather than the order I’ve been reading them, which has been nonlinear because nonlinear is how I read most things. Tonight I want the sequence. I want to know what he knew and when he knew it.
Entry twelve is dated three months before my birth.
The handwriting is different from the early entries — tighter, faster, the urgency of someon
