Jennifer, if this notebook gets delivered to you, it more than likely means that I’ve failed in my efforts to return home. Please know I tried. If nothing else, this notebook gives me a chance to say goodbye, and let you know that being with the four of you was more important to me than life itself.
It has been 12 days since the attack, and by various means, I have managed to travel from Houston to a point just south of Dimmit, TX. Without a calendar or a watch, the days just blend together (which isn’t all bad, because now I don’t have to dread Monday mornings, though in a way, every day seems like a Monday). I’ve reverted to my caveman heritage and have simply started counting days since the attack, instead of trying to figure out dates, as that seems to be the easiest way for me to keep track of time. With next to no transportation available, I have resorted to walking but am fortunate enough to have a small cart, which I use to haul my supplies. If things go as planned, I expect it will take me between 70 and 80 days, putting me in Deer Creek towards the end of November.
Jennifer, how do I write something that you will probably only read if I’m dead? I want you to know that I love you. Looking back, I’m sure I never told you enough, and as I think about the possibility that I might never see you again, it completely rips my heart out. I know I took you for granted and never really took the time to think about what you meant to me. Thank you for being my wife, my love, my friend, my support, my partner. I want to see you so badly, to hold you in my arms, to kiss your face, and simply hold your hand. The thought of not being with you is almost unbearable. I know there’s a good chance I won’t make it, and if I don’t, please move on with your life and find someone else who will love you and make you happy.
David, you’re a son any father would be proud to have. I probably wasn’t as patient with you as I should have been, but I was a rookie dad, and I hope you know that your father loved you. I’m not sure under what circumstances you might see this notebook, or how old you’ll be, but please promise me you’ll live a good life and not let circumstances make you bitter. Take care of your mother, and be there for your sister and brother. They’ll need you. The world will need good people for leaders. Be one. Things may never be like they were before, but take on your challenges, stand up for your family, and make me a proud father.
Emma, you’ve always been my beautiful and sweet princess, just like your mother. I’ve missed your hugs and smiles; my days haven’t been nearly as bright without them. Your heart has always been especially tender, and I worry about you every day. Please don’t let the way things are keep you from living a happy life. I’ve realized in the past few days that we don’t need much to be happy, just good people to be with. Please know that I loved you more than you can understand. Keep smiling, and save some hugs for your dad.
Spencer, it breaks my heart to think I might not get to see you grow up and become the man I hope you’ll be. You probably won’t remember me, but know that your dad loved you enough to try to walk across the country to be with you. We named you after my father, your grandfather. He was a good man. Do his name proud. You’re smart and determined, full of energy and innocence. Do good things with your life. One way or another, I’ll be there to watch you grow up, if not as your father, then as your guardian angel. Help take care of your mother. She’ll need you to be strong.
My trip has been and will likely continue to be more difficult than I expected. People are scared, supplies are scarce, and it’s a long ways to walk, but I think I can do it.
I love you all.
The light was nearly gone when Kyle put his notebook away and lay down for the night. He felt a small weight lift from his shoulders, knowing that if he didn’t make it home there was a chance his family would know some of what happened to him and how he felt about them. He closed his eyes and quickly drifted off to sleep.
Saturday, September 17th
Northern Texas
Kyle set his cart down in the shade of a semi-truck emblazoned with the powder blue logo of Werner Enterprises. It was sometime in the early afternoon, and a light breeze blew but did nothing more than circulate the hot, stale air. During the month he’d been in Texas, he’d grown more accustomed to the heat and humidity, but still longed for the cool, dry air of Montana.
He pulled out a jug of water and took a long drink, then rolled out his sleeping bag on the ground for a pad, hoping to get a few minutes of rest in the shade of the truck. With a rolled-up pair of dirty jeans for a pillow, Kyle closed his eyes and was just drifting off when he heard a strange noise. In his semi-conscious state, he dismissed the unfamiliar sound, until he heard it a second time. The third time he heard the noise, his eyes popped open. Propping himself up on an elbow, he strained to listen and finally heard a soft moan coming from somewhere close by. Kyle rose to his knees and looked around, trying to spot the source of the moan, sure that it wasn’t coming from any of the animals he had become familiar with over the past two weeks.
Kyle put his hands to his mouth and yelled, then heard the sound again, this time louder. He jumped to his feet and scanned the surrounding area more thoroughly. As he looked around, he thought to himself how everything he loved about Montana, this area of Texas lacked. Instead of mountains, trees, rivers, and lakes, it was flat, barren and had just two dominant features: scrub brush and brown dirt. As far as the eye could see, scraggly, waist-high scrub brush dotted an ocean of brown dirt, and he had grown sick of it. When the wind blew, it got in his eyes, his ears, and his nose, and he seemed to taste it all of the time. Even in his dreams he saw and tasted the same never-ending, brown dirt.
Puzzled by the strange noise, Kyle continued to scan the area, but could see nothing that would account for it. Then he heard the sound again. He walked to the edge of the road and noticed a dry wash, thirty feet from where he stood, that connected to a culvert running under the road. He ran to it, knelt down on a knee, and peered inside.
Not a dozen feet from where Kyle knelt was a tiny, frail, old lady, staring back at him from the shelter of the culvert. She lay on her left side with her back against the side, as if she had been sitting with her back against the culvert and someone had simply pushed her over. She looked at Kyle and smiled weakly, her white teeth a stark contrast from the dirt that covered her face. “Can you help me?” she whispered through cracked lips, barely able to form the words.
Kyle knelt in front of the tunnel, stunned by his discovery. He scrambled forward into the cool shade and put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?” he asked, leaning his face in close to her ear.
“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I’m not hurt.” She paused, then struggled to speak again. “I’m thirsty…and hungry.” She swallowed with great effort. “I don’t think I’m going to make it much longer.” She reached out, put her hand on Kyle’s arm, and looked intently into his eyes. “Did you come to save me?” she asked.
“Let me get you some water.” Kyle crawled out of the culvert and ran back to his cart. He grabbed his last jug of water and returned to the tunnel where he set the jug down before helping the woman into a sitting position. Bracing her upright with his shoulder, Kyle lifted the jug, held it to her lips, and slowly poured the water into her mouth.
She drank in deliberate, careful swallows. Some of the water spilled down her cheeks and onto her blouse, leaving muddy brown spots. Kyle assumed the blouse had originally been white or beige, but it was now nearly as brown as the dirt that surrounded them.