I still have the receipt.

I found the receipt while emptying my pockets to wash my clothes. I'd forgotten which pocket I'd put it in. One corner is nearly torn off, but I can read everything.

The food I ordered. The amount I paid. October 23, 2026.

I left it on the kitchen table while I put the laundry in. Came back and read it again.

There's an address printed below the name of the diner. I looked in the phone book first, under the name and then through the restaurant listings. Couldn't find it. Yesterday I drove into town with the receipt beside me on the seat.

There's no diner there.

I went past twice because I thought I had the wrong stretch of road. The neighboring buildings were where I remembered them. Between them was an empty lot with some old fencing along the back. I pulled over and sat looking at it for a while.

A wrong date on a cash register would be easy enough to explain. I don't know what to do with the rest of it.

On the way home I stopped for groceries. Bought eggs, bread, a few things I could cook without much effort. I was halfway through the store when I realized I was still holding the receipt. I'd taken it out again without noticing.

My leg hasn't changed back.

I think I expected it to. I've been home several days now, sleeping properly and eating, and the knee is still there. I keep trying the prosthesis even though I can see why it won't fit. Yesterday I got so frustrated with it that I shoved it across the bedroom floor. Then I had to get over there and pick it up.

I took a few pictures of my leg. Used the rest of the film. I'll get it developed when I go back into town, if I can stand handing it over to somebody. For now I've written down what it looks like and where the old scar ends. I want something I can compare it with.

There was also a letter from my therapist in the mail I'd left piled by the door. It was postmarked weeks ago. She must have written while I was still down there.

She'd read the blog as far as it went then. She wants me to come in. Asked me to bring the notebook and to call her office when I got the letter.

I've read it several times. She sounds worried. I can hear her voice in some of the sentences, especially where she asks how much I've been sleeping.

She doesn't know about my leg yet. Or the diner.

I started writing a reply this morning, but I only got a paragraph down. Trying to explain this again is exhausting. I could go there and show her. She knew me after the operation. I wouldn't have to convince her about that part.

I haven't called yet. Her letter is beside the phone.

I've put the receipt in the kitchen drawer with the paperwork for the truck. I didn't know where else to put it.