I picked up the journal.
Marcus labeled every journal by year. Eight years of them lined the shelf, dark green, same brand, same precise handwriting.
This one was from the year Milo had surgery.
I opened it.
The first entry I saw was not about Milo.
It was about a four-year-old in Ohio who needed a bone marrow procedure.
Sent through usual account. No name. Easier for them. Easier for me.
I turned pages faster.
Seven-year-old burn victim.
A baby needing a liver specialist in Dallas.
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