Epilogue
Ten years later
I lay the journal out on the table and set Job’s cup of coffee next to it. It was a rough night, and usually, that means he’s going to need to write in order to process it. It was something Patricia recommend he begin doing, and now we have over thirty journals in a box that we will one day burn. That’s what Job said he wanted to do with them. The first time he handed me a finished journal and told me he wanted me to read it I cried because every entry started with, “Dear Sparrow.” All these years later we still write to one another.
“Thanks, babe,” he says as he takes a seat at the table and pulls the journal to him.
I lean down and kiss him. “I’m going to check on the crumb catcher and then take a shower. Are you going on a jog?”
“Yeah, after I’m done here.”
