He opened the book in his lap, casually but with care, and flipped through its many pages, every last one of them filled top to bottom with the scrawling penmanship of a child. The slant of the words, the urgency of the ink—pressed and dark with increasingly thicker strokes—the size of the letters . . . Each passing page visually represented what the actual content revealed in heartbreaking starkness—his best friend descending into utter, complete, savage madness. The journal ended with about thirty empty pages. The last one to contain writing had only one word, its letters filling the entire space, scrawled with violence: PLEASE.

Man, Newt, Thomas thought. Wasn’t it bad enough? Wasn’t the end the peak of our awfulness? Why in the hell did you have to let this book exist, let it get into the hands of Ava Paige? Why?

But even as those harsh considerations stomped across his mind, Thomas knew they were empty of meaning. He loved this journal. This book. These words of his friend’s. Any pain they brought back only served to frame the bigger picture—the canvas upon which a piece of Newt’s life had been painted, for them to have forever. For their kids to have. For posterity. A museum piece of memories, the good and the bad.

Thomas thumbed through the pages of the journal and chose one at random, though he cheated and erred toward the front, when Newt’s symptoms had only begun to blossom. No one knew exactly when he’d started writing because there were no dates and not a lot of references to specific events. But the passage that Thomas read now had to be the day they’d left their friend behind, in the Berg, while they stole their way into the city of Denver.

Thomas breathed in each word, savored it, pondered it:

I feel like a dick saying this, but I gotta get out of here. Can’t take it anymore. I love these people. I love them more than I could’ve possibly ever loved anyone. And I obviously say that because I can’t remember my mum and dad. But I imagine it would be like this. Family. That’s what they are. Thomas. Minho. Everyone. But I can’t be with them one more day. It’s killing me, and that ain’t some bloody joke. I’m done. For them, I’m done. Gone. And that ain’t a joke, either. I guess these words just come naturally. Killing. Gone. Gotta put this diary down, now. I have another note to write.