At first June was ecstatic at finding Roland’s notebook stuffed into the hole of the tree. If she hadn’t stopped in that exact spot to rest, she’d never have found it. Really, it was nothing short of miraculous.

But someone wasn’t playing fair. His notes had been ripped and torn as though in anger. Other handwriting filled portions of the margins, page after page and it wasn’t Roland’s nor Jackson’s. But it was there.

It was getting late so June tucked the notebook into an inner pocket and set up camp for the night. Later sitting by the fire with a cup of makeshift coffee and rations in hand, she pulled it out to examine it again. This time she’d read just the added portions to see if they made any sense, if they hung together and told any kind of story.

The more she read, the less sense it made. Filled with ambiguity, partial thoughts and holding double meaning, she couldn’t imagine the mind of the individual that wrote it. Clearly, it wasn’t Roland.

It was as though someone had written quickly in shorthand, thoughts, ideas, plans, all completely unrelated to anything else on the page. Were either Roland or Jackson in this person’s presence at the time of the writing, or had they found the notebook after Roland had hidden it and used the opportunity for their own purposes?

Someone had hidden the notebook so the weather couldn’t harm it. In it’s present state and without context, it made no sense. A shiver ran through her at the thought.

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