I’d lost the book. The goddamn book. It wasn’t in the first bookcase, on my desk, in the TV room, on or under either of the nightstands, in the second bookcase, or under the bed. It wasn’t on the microwave, either. It wasn’t in plain sight. I scanned the ground in case it might’ve somehow fallen but there was nothing. I searched the travel bag full of other books, the backpack I keep packed with rations and a med kit for emergencies, the giant hiking pack already bursting at the seams with gear. It might’ve been in the Jeep, but all I found was laundry detergent, a milk crate full of fluids and tools, and water bottles. No, it wasn’t on top of the fridge.

When had I become so careless that I’d lose the book?

I was prepared to audit my entire apartment when I saw it sitting on the window sill in the bedroom, beside a boxed lava lamp, an empty seltzer bottle, and a dead smoke detector. It must have remained there after I set up the bookcases. It was safe.

It is the reason I read, write, and support creative diversity. It’s the reason I’m here and not someplace else. It is unforgiveable that such a token should be forgotten on the wayside amongst piles of other stuff that are nothing more than that. I don’t know what path I might have forged without this.

Jesus.

Take care of your books, will you? Especially the ones that have changed your life.