From the notebook.

I've copied some of the notebook here. There are pages I can barely read. I didn't date most of them, and further on I stopped writing complete sentences. I've filled in a few things where I can remember what I meant.

There's something I need to explain first. I lost my right leg in the accident. Above the knee. I wear a prosthesis.

I haven't mentioned it because I didn't want these pages to become another place where I had to talk about the accident. Most of the time I can get on with what I'm doing. It makes some things harder. You've read about a few of them without knowing that part.

You need to know it now.

---

The first lamp is gone.

The next one is still there. Same place beside the wall. I checked the floor around the missing one in case I'd kicked it out of the way on a previous trip.

Further along, I couldn't find one of the chalk arrows. The reflective tape was gone too. I kept walking until I reached the next mark. That one was where I remembered it.

Somebody has been moving things.

---

The supplies at the stairs have been disturbed. Food is missing. One water container is still full, another is gone. There are batteries left, but fewer than I thought.

I went through everything twice.

I've taken what I can carry. I don't want to leave any more food here.

---

The distance from the stairs to the wall is wrong.

I know I wasn't measuring properly before. I know walking with a heavy pack takes longer. But I reached the wall while I was still expecting to be somewhere in the middle of the room.

At the next junction, my notes say right.

There isn't a passage on the right.

I've gone back to the number on the wall. It's mine. The little cross beside it is mine too.

I must have made a mistake somewhere.

---

I've checked the same pages so often that the paper is coming apart at the fold.

Perhaps I came through another opening. Perhaps I missed one of the marks and started following a different route.

I can't work it out sitting here. There is somebody in this place. I need to find him.

---

At the top of the ladder.

I called out in the room beyond the hatch. Said I knew somebody was there. Asked him to come out and talk.

Only the echo.

I waited until it stopped and called again.

---

Very little food left. Trying to make the water last.

I keep thinking I've only been away a few days, then I look at how much I've eaten and how many times I've slept. It must be weeks.

---

Something is wrong with my leg.

The socket wouldn't fit properly when I woke up. I thought the stump had swollen. Took everything off and checked it with the light.

There is a knee.

I'm writing that down because I don't know what else to do.

There is a knee where there shouldn't be one.

---

I remember the hospital. I remember the first time they showed me what was left. I remember learning to walk with the prosthesis.

I haven't imagined all of that.

I can put my hand around the knee. There is skin over it. It moves.

The prosthesis won't fit over it.

---

I've been trying to adjust things enough to walk. I can't get the socket seated. Every attempt hurts.

No crutches. Nothing long enough to use as a stick.

I move with one hand against the wall whenever there's a wall to use. In the open stretches I have to stop constantly.

---

The tattoo on my arm is fading.

I noticed while changing the batteries. Thought it was the light. Rubbed it with my thumb, then held the other flashlight against it.

Most of the lines are barely there.

I don't understand what is happening to me.

---

Found stairs.

They wind around. I can't see the top or bottom from any one place.

Going up.

---

Two hours, perhaps. I counted flights for a while and then forgot the number.

Another corridor at the top. Straight. Looks like the first one.

---

I've been walking for hours.

There is a wall at the end.

---

I shouted until my throat hurt. Hit the wall with both hands.

Then I sat down.

I don't remember much of that part except being angry that I'd brought myself all this way for another wall.

---

There is air coming through it.

I felt it against my face while I was sitting there.

This wall is different. Stones and mortar. I can feel the edges of the stones. Everything else has been smooth.

---

I dug at one of the joints with my fingernails until I remembered the pocketknife.

The mortar comes away in little pieces.

---

One stone out. Then another.

Wood behind them.

I pushed against it. It doesn't move.

---

I've removed as much stone as I can reach. It took hours. There is a thick wooden panel behind the opening.

I've started working on it with the knife.

---

I slept beside the wall and went back to it when I woke.

The blade keeps slipping. I've cut my fingers.

I can get little chips out, but it is so slow.

---

I don't know how many times I've slept here. It feels like days.

Almost no water.

I keep putting my face against the wood because I can feel air through the part I've cut.

---

A hole.

I can get a finger through.

There is more wood behind it. Thick boards.

---

I made the hole larger, braced myself against the stone and kicked with my left foot. Had to stop and sit down between attempts.

Eventually one board split. I pulled at it until I could get part of it loose. Then I worked on the one beside it.

Two boards out. Enough room to try.

---

It was my basement.

I could see the stairs.

I dragged myself through the opening and fell onto the floor. I lay there crying. I kept looking at the staircase to make sure it was still there.

---

That is where the notebook stops for a while.

I got upstairs and went straight to the kitchen faucet. I drank from my hands. Spilled water down the front of my clothes and didn't care.

It took me a little while to notice the faucet.

It wasn't mine.

The handles were different. The sink was different too. I looked up and saw the cabinets.

The kitchen had been replaced.

I stood there with the water still running.

It wasn't new. The cabinet doors were worn and there were stains on the counter, but it wasn't the kitchen I'd been working in. The yellow was gone. The old cabinets were gone.

I went through the downstairs rooms.

Somebody had done the work. The walls had been repaired and painted. There were different outlets. Different light fixtures. But the paint was peeling in places, and parts of the house looked as though they'd been left empty for years.

I couldn't find anything of mine.

No tools. No boxes. No books. Upstairs, the mattress was gone.

The bathroom had changed completely. Even the water heater I'd just installed had been replaced.

I looked outside. The truck wasn't there.

I kept opening doors, expecting to find my things piled in another room. There wasn't anything.

Eventually I went back to the bathroom and took a shower. I needed to wash. I couldn't think what else to do.

Afterward I put the same clothes back on and went outside.

The walk into town took a long time. I had to stop often. I was hungry enough that I kept looking at buildings just to see whether somewhere might sell food.

There was a diner on a stretch of road where I didn't remember one being. I thought I'd somehow never noticed it.

I still had some cash in my wallet. Enough for a small plate of food. I sat down and ate slowly because my stomach hurt.

There was a radio playing behind the counter.

Between songs, a man read the news and said the date.

October twenty-third, twenty twenty-six.

I looked toward the counter. Nobody reacted.

I thought it must be a sketch, or something from a movie being played on the radio. I waited for someone to laugh or explain it.

When I paid, I took the receipt.

10/23/2026.

I read it several times. Turned it over. Looked back at the front.

I couldn't get a proper breath.

I'd already wondered whether I was dead. Sitting there, I thought it again. I tried to make the idea fit what I was looking at. The dirty dishes. Somebody wiping a table. The ache in my leg.

I left without finishing the water they'd brought me.

I tried to run home. I couldn't. I hurried as much as I could, limping, stopping when I had to, then starting again. I kept the receipt clenched in my hand until I remembered to put it in my pocket.

At the house I went straight down to the basement.

The opening was still there.

I went back through.

I don't have a useful account of the return journey. I wasn't making notes. I followed the route I'd come by whenever I recognized it and looked for my marks when I didn't.

I remember the winding stairs. I remember the ladder and being afraid my hands would open without me telling them to. I remember dragging myself through that narrow tunnel again.

I slept in short stretches. Perhaps an hour altogether. Perhaps much more. I would find myself sitting on the floor without remembering when I'd stopped.

Eventually I reached the long corridor leading to the basement.

The opening was ahead of me.

I got through and climbed the stairs.

My kitchen was there.

Brown cabinets. Yellow counter. The little television with the second camera beside it.

I went upstairs. The mattress was on the floor.

My tools were where I'd left them. The truck was outside.

I've spent most of today checking things. Opening cupboards. Looking at the water heater. Going to the window to look at the truck again.

Everything is mine.

I don't know how to finish this. I've written it out and read it back, and it sounds like something a person would write when he'd completely lost his mind.

I think that may be what has happened.