I haven't been through his closet on his side of the room since he left. I walk over silently and open it. It still smells like him. I see something hidden under the clothes piled at the bottom. I move the clothes slowly, as if not to disturb them, and pick it up gently. A book. I read the familiar handwriting scribbled across the front of the leather-bound book.
"Property of Michael Jones. Read once I'm dead."
