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I still don’t know why I’m doing this. Or if you’re getting any of these. Maybe it’s just for me. Writing them. Dropping them off and watching them wind up in the hands of somebody who has no idea what to do with them. Yeah. It’s for me, I guess.

But I’m at Ft. Bragg now. The train ride was long. Painful too, because the longer I sat on it the further I knew I was getting from you and the boys. If it’s even possible to get further than I already am.

Part of me thought… no. I’m not going to play along with any of this. I’m going back to our house. Sit in our yard. Kick that family out, even. Sleep in our bed and hope I wake up next to you. But the more I thought about it – it’s not our house, our yard, our bed. I’d probably just wind up in jail trying.

So here I am. In North Carolina. Worlds away. Seeing this out.

I’ll keep writing these and pray they get to you. Maybe it’s the most sane thing I’m doing. Maybe the stupid mail truck can drive forward in time the way that jeep drove back. A DeLorean mail truck, maybe.

God, let’s just hope I don’t go insane before this is all over. Maybe that’s the end game.

Okay. I’m going to stop before this gets too gloomy,

-J